/o^L-vv^:^^^^^ 


^  "'y^    ,    T~t.«sHK«-j^ 


'By  thi  iame  i^uthor: 

IHF   EARLY  myrORY  OF  JACOB  STAHI. 
A  CANDIDA!  E  FOR   TRL'IH 
THE  INVISIBLE  TRL'TH 
THE  HAMPDENSHIRE  WONDER 
GObLlNtib:  A  WORLD  OK  WOMEN 
THE  HOUSE  IN  DEMETRUi.  ROAD 
THESE  LYNNEKERS 
HOUSEMATES 
MNEIF.EN  IMPRESSIONS 
god's  COUNTERPOINT 

I  HE  JERVAISE  COMEDY 
AN  IMPERFECl    MOI  HER 
REVOLUTION 

/////;  l\i^nnfth  'J\uhmond: 
\V.  E.  ford:  a  BIOGRAPHY 


Printed  in  Great  Britain, 


SIGNS  &  WONDERS 

BY   j.   D.   BERESFORD 


\\ 


G.    P.    PUTNAM'S      SONS 
NEW  YORK  .    .    .  MCMXXI 


TO 
WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 


^'■Hath  icrVing  nature^  bidden  ofthegods^ 
T/iii{-scieefied  •Sllans  narro-^^  shy^ 
^{nd  hung  these  Stygian  yei/s  of  fog 
To  hide  his  dingied  sty? — 
The  gods  iiho  yet,  at  mortal  birth^ 
'Bequeathed  him  fantasy  V 

'IOG'  bv  \^ALTER  DE  LA  MARE 


CONTENTS 


PA(,E 

prologue:  the  atpi  akance  ok  man        8 

SIGNS  AND  WONDrRS  I  2 

THE  CACJE  16 

ENLARl.EMENT  20 

THE  PERFECT  SMILE  26 

THE  HIDDEN  BEAST  34 

THE  nARRAGE  38 

THE  INIROVERT  44 

THE  BARRIER  5O 

THE  CONNER  1  54 

A  NEGLIGIDI.F.  EXPIkJMKNr  68 

THE  MIRACLE  74 

VOl'NG  SIRICKLANd's  CAREER  80 

A  DIFFERENCE  OF  TEMPERAMENT  86 

REFERENCE  WANTED  92 

AS   THE  CROW  FLIES  96 

THE  NIGH  1   OF  CREATION  102 


PROLOGUE 


THi:  APPr.ARANCi:  OV  MAN  :   •/  /'/../)•  Ol'T  OF 

•I  I  Ml.  ^  sp  u:i:. 

U'lifH  t/u  no  tain  riiffy  two  tutu  ii/i<(  a  -nonKVi  are  dtsccvtred 
talking  lufott  an  illiniital'le  haik^rou/ul. 

KIRsr  MAN  [ihaiiu^  hands  with  thr  man  and  the  xuonian'\ 
Well!  Who'd  have  thoujjilit  olincctiMi:  yoii  here! 

WOMAN.  C)r  you,  as  far  as  that  goes.  \yc  thou;.:ht  v  ou 
were  li\inii;  in  PutiKv. 

FIRST  MAN.  So  I  ain.  It  jubt  happLiicd  iliat  IM  iuno\cr 
this  morning. 

[£«/(•;•  'I\^  a  n(/>u/a,  s/'inning  s/ow/w  It  f^assts  viajatically 
across  the  background  as  the  scene  f>rocieds.] 

SECOND  MAN.   The  World's  a  \cry  small  place. 

FiRsr  M.\N.   Ah!  \'ouVc  right,  it  is. 

WOMAN.   And  how's  the  famih? 

FIRST  MAN.   Capital,  thanks.   \'ours  well,  loo,  I  hope? 

woM.AN.  All  except  Johnnie. 

[^€nter  'J^  a  grouf>  of  prehistoric  animals;  a  few  hrontcsauri, 
titanotheres,  mammoths,  sabre-toothed  tigers,  and  so  on.] 

FIRST  MAN.  What's  wrong  with  him? 

WOMAN.   He  was  bit  by  a  dog.   Nasty  place  he's  got. 

FIRST  MAN.  Did  you  ha\e  it  cauterised:  They're  naity 
things,  dog-bites. 

W0M.\N.   Oh,  yes,  we  had  it  cauterised,  you  may  he  sure. 

SECOND  MAN    [reflectivelv]    Dangerous  things,  dogs. 

FiRsr  MAN.  If  they're  not  properly  looked  after,  tjicy  are. 
Now  I've  got  a  little  dog.  .  .  . 

[t//  this  point  the  speaker  s  Toice  becomes  inaudible  oicing  to 
the  passing  of  the  brontcsauri,  "^hich  gradually  move  ojf  L.] 

WOMAN   \becoming  audible  and  apparently  interrupting  in  the 


TliE  APPEARANCE  OV  MAN  ^9 

?niddh-  of  an  anrcaot,-]   HiouL^i  I  tell  Johnnie  it's  hisown  fault. 
He  shouldn't  have  teased  him. 

[€>itr'r  R.  a  fiw  thouiand  uivagei  vulth  fdnt  '^eapons.'\ 

SECOND  MAN.   Bo)  s  vviU  be  boys. 

WOMAN.  Which  is  no  reason,  I  s;\y,  that  they  shouldn't 
learn  tc  behave  themselves. 

FIRST  MAN.   Can't  begin  too  soon,  in  my  opinion. 

\Excunt  iavager.  enter  the  population  of  Ind'ia.'\ 

WOMAN.  He  might  have  been  killed  if  a  man  hadn't  come 
up  and  pulled  the  dog  off  him.   A  black  man,  he  was,  too. 

FIRST  MAN.  What?  A  nigger? 

WOMAN.  Or  a  Turk,  or  something.  I  can't  never  see  the 
difference.  [If^it/j  a  shivn:]  Ugh!  I  hate  black  men, someliow. 
The  look  of 'em  gives  me  the  shudders. 

SECOND  MAN    [on  a  note  of  faint  expostulation']    My  dear! 

FIRST  MAN.  V\c  heard  others  say  the  same  thing. 

WOMAN.  A  pretty  penny,  Johnnie'U  cost  us,  with  the 
Doctor  and  all. 

\_Snter  two  armies  engaged  in  a  Qivil  lVar.'\ 

FIRST  MAN    [slja{ing  bis  head,  -wisely]    Ah !  I  daresay  it  will. 
SECOND  MAN.    /  doii't  know  what  we're  coming  to,  what 
with  wages  and  prices  and  Lord  knows  what  all? 

FIRST  MAN.   No  niorc  do  I.   Wh}',  only  yesterday  .... 

[The  rest  of  bis  sentence  is  drowned  hy  1  be  p ring  of  a  battery  of 
beavy  guns.] 

WOMAN.   Oh!  well,  I  suppose  it'll  all  come  right  in  time. 

[The  ^/tvV  Jf^ar  moves  off" L.  Signs  of  the  approaching  end 
of  the  -world  become  manifest.] 

FIRST  MAN.  We'll  hope  for  the  best,  I'm  sure. 

[The  Hosts  of  Heaven  appear  in  the  sky.] 

SECOND  MAN  [refecti^ely]  On  the  whole,  I  should  say 
that  things  looked  a  bit  better  than  they  did. 


10  SIGNS  AND  WONDF.Rs 


[7f.f  Sfa  givtf  up  in  7)a;</.] 

\voM.\N.  \Vc  sliall  t.iki'  Jolimiic  lo  R.miscratc,  as  soon  as 
his  arm's  well. 

FiRsr  MAN.   \S'c  alwa)s  go  to  S^Mrborougli. 

sKCOND  MAN.  Wc  ha\  c  to  coiiMelcr  the  expense  of  the 
journey,  especially  now  there's  no  cheap  trains. 

[  T/'i*  uiiiXt'iif  hunts  into  jiaiHf.  For  a  moinfut  all  is  confusion; 
anJ  then  the  Spirit  ofthf  First  {Man  is  heard  spra^tng.^ 

SPIRIT  <'^  I IK--I-  MAN.  Well,  I  suppose  I  ouglit  to  bc  get- 
ting along. 

SPIRI  r  oi-  sKCOND  MAN.   Ghul  to  h:i\  c  met  )  ou,  anyway. 

spiRi  r  OF  WOMAN.  Funny  our  running  up  against  you 
like  this.  As  you  said,  the  world's  a  \  cry  small  place.  Remem- 
ber mc  to  the  family.   [They  ^o  cut.] 

The  nebula^  still  spinning  slm-lv,  passes  o^  the  stage  L. 


CURTAIN  AD  LIB. 


SIGNS  &  WONDERS 


SIGNS  .\  \V ONDIlRS 


InRl.A.Ml'.i)  ihi^  ui  the  iliillncss  of  a  Fcl->ru.iry  liiiy  in 
I  .oiulon. 

1  h.ul  Ikou  poiuLriiiLi  tlic  clcini-iitN  tluit  1:0  10  the  iiiak- 
ini;of  the  human  ciitit\-,aiul  more  particularl)  that  new  aspect 
of  the  thcoiv  of  the  etherie  ho(l\'  which  presents  it  as  a  visible, 
poiulcrahle,  taiiiiihle,  hiij;hl)-  oiiiaiiiseil,  Init  ahiiost  iiicictlibly 
tenuous,  form  of  matter.  From  that  I  slid  to  tlic  consideration 
of  the  possibility  of  some  essence  still  more  remote  from  our 
conception  of  the  gross  material  of  our  objccti\c  experience; 
and  then  for  a  moment  I  held  the  idea  of  the  imiK-rccptiblc 
transition  from  tliis  ultimatels'  dispersing  matter  to  thought  or 
impulse — from  the  various  bodies,  ethcric,  astral,  mental, caus- 
al, or  Buddhistic,  to  the  free  and  absolute  Soul. 

I  suppose  that  at  this  point  I  fell  asleep.  I  was  not  aware 
of  any  change  of  conciousness,  but  I  cannot  otherwise  explain 
the  fact  that  in  an  instant  I  was  transported  froin  an  open  place 
in  the  Nortli  of  l^ondon,  and  from  all  this  familiar  earth  of 
ours,  to  some  planet  without  tlic  knowledge  of  the  dwellers  in 
the  solar  system. 

This  amazing  change  was  accomplished  without  the  least 
shock.  It  was,  indeed,  imperceptible.  The  new  world  upon 
which  I  opened  my  eyes  appeared  at  iirst  sight  to  differ  in  no 
particular  froin  that  I  had  so  recently  left.  I  saw  below  mc  a 
perfect  replica  of  the  Hampstead  Garden  Suburb.  The  wind 
blew  from  the  east  with  no  loss  of  its  characteristic  quality. 
The  occasional  people  who  passed  had  thf.-  same  air  of  tired 
foreboding  and  intense  preoccupation  with  tlic  iniscrablc  im- 
portance of  their  instant  lives,  that  has  seemed  to  mc  to  mark 
the  air  of  the  middle-classes  for  the  past  few  weeks.  Also  it 
wasj  I  thought,  beginning  to  rain. 


SIGNS  AND  WONDERS  1 3 

I  s!ii\  crcd  and  tlccidcil  that  I  might  as  well  u;o  liomc.  I  felt 
that  it  was  not  worth  while  to  travel  a  distance  unrecordable 
in  any  measure  of  earthly  miles,  only  to  renew  my  terrestrial 
experiences.  And  then,  by  an  accident,  possibly  to  verify  my 
theory  that  it  was  certainly  going  to  rain,  I  looked  up  and  real- 
ised at  once  the  unspeakable  difference  between  that  world  and 
our  own. 

For  on  this  little  earth  of  ours  the  sky  makes  no  claim  on 
our  attention.  It  has  its  effects  of  cloud  and  light  occasionally, 
and  these  effects  no  doubt  may  engage  at  times  the  interest  of 
the  poet  or  the  artist.  But  to  us,  ordinary  people,  the  sky  is 
always  pretty  much  the  same,  and  we  only  look  at  it  when  we 
are  expecting  rain.   Even  then  we  often  sluit  our  eyes. 

In  that  other  world  which  re\  olves  round  a  sun  so  distant 
that  the  light  of  it  has  not  yet  reached  the  earth  the  sky  is  quite 
different.  Things  happen  in  it.  As  I  looked  up,  for  instance,  I 
saw  a  great  door  open,  and  out  of  it  there  marched  an  immense 
procession  that  trailed  its  glorious  length  across  the  whole  width 
of  heaven.  I  heard  nosoimd.  The  eternal  host  moved  in  silent 
dignity  from  zenith  to  horizon.  And  after  the  procession  had 
passed  the  whole  visible  arch  of  the  sky  was  parted  like  a  cur- 
tain and  there  looked  out  from  the  opening  the  semblance  of  a 
vast,  intent  c}'e. 

But  what  immediately  followed  the  gaze  of  that  over- 
whelming watcher  I  do  not  know,  for  someone  touched  my 
arm,  and  a  voice  close  at  my  shouUler  said  in  the  \ery  tones  of 
an  earthly  cockney: 

"What  yer  starin'  at,  gu\'norr  Airy  planes.^  I  can't  see 
none." 

I  looked  at  him  and  found  that  lie  was  just  such  a  loafer  as 
one  may  see  any  day  in  ]>ondon. 

"Aeroplanes,"  I  repeated.   "Great  Heaven,  can't  you  see 
what's  up  there?  The  procession  and  that  eyer" 
He  stared  up  then,  and  I  with  him,  and  the  eye  had  gone;  but 
between  the  still  parted  heavens  I  could  see  into  the  profundity 


I  4  MCSS  AND  WONDERS 

ot  a  space  ^o  rich  with  hc.iiity  and,  as  it  sccnicd,  with  promise, 
that  I  held  my  breath  in  sheer  wonder. 

"No!  I  can't  see  nothin*,  mi\'nor,"  my  companion  said. 

And  I  pii'Miinc  that  as  he  spoke  I  must  h:i\e  waked  from 
mv  dream,  for  the  ;^lory  \  anishcd  and  1  found  in\  self  dispcnsinij; 
a  smill  alms  to  a  shahhv  man  who  was  representing  himself  as 
mot>t  unworthilv  suffering  through  no  fault  of  his  own. 

As  I  walked  home  through  the  rain  I  refleett.d  that  the 
people  of  that  incredihl)'  ilistant  world,  walking,  as  they  alwavs 
do,  with  their  ga/.e  hent  upon  the  ground,  are  probably  unable 
to  sec  the  signs  and  wonders  that  blaze  across  the  sk)-.  They, 
like  ourselves,  are  so  preoccupied  with  the  miserable  import- 
ance of  their  instant  lives. 


THE  CAGE 


I  WAS  not  asleep,  I  have  watched  passengers  who  kept 
their  eyes  shut  between  the  stations,  hut  as  )ct  I  lia\c 
not  ^cen  an  iiuhsputahle  case  of  anyone  sound  asleep  on  the 
HaInp^tead  and  Charing  Cross  Tu he.  Of  the  other  passages 
that  inakc  up  I^ondon's  greater  intestine  I  have  less  experience, 
and  it  may  be  that  some  tubes  are  more  conduci\  e  to  slumber 
than  the  one  most  familiar  to  me.  1  have  no  ambition  to  make 
a  dogmatic  generalisation  concerning  eitlior  the  Ntimulati\c  or 
soporific  action  of  the  Underground.  I  merely  wish  it  to  be 
understood  that  I  was  not  asleep,  and  that  it  was  hardly  possible 
that  I  could  ha\e  been,  with  a  small  portmanteau  permanently 
on  one  foot,  and  the  owner  of  it — a  little  man  wlio  must  ha\e 
wished  that  the  straps  were  rather  longer — intermittently  on 
theotlier.  Against  this,  however,  I  ha\'e  to  put  the  fact  that  I 
could  not  say  at  which  station  the  little  nian  rcmo\  ed  from  me 
the  burden  of  himself  and  his  portmanteau.  Nor  could  I  gi\e 
p.-irticulars  of  the  appearance  of  such  of  my  innumerable  fellow- 
passengers  as  were  most  nearly  presented  to  me,  although  I  do 
knowihat  most  of  them  were  reading — even  the  strap-hangers. 
It  w.as,  indeed,  this  observation  that  started  my  vision  or  train 
of  thought  or  preoccupation — call  it  anything  you  like  except 
a  dream. 

^  r^  -^ 

The  eves  in  liis  otlierwisc  repulsive  face  held  a  wistfulncss, 
a  hint  of  vague  speculation  that  attracted  me.  He  sat,  hunched 
on  the  summit  of  the  steeply  rising  ground  overlooking  the 
sea,  the  place  where  the  forest  comes  so  abruptly  to  an  end  that 
from  a  little  distance  it  looks  as  if  it  had  been  giganticalU  planed 
to  a  hard  edge. 

He  was  alone  and  ruminativcly  quiescent  after  food.    He 


THE  CAGE  17 

had  fed  well  and  carelessly.  Some  of  the  bones  that  lay  near 
him  had  been  very  indifferently  picked.  He  leaned  forward 
clasping  his  hairy  legs  with  his  equally  hairy  arms,  and  stared 
out  with  that  hint  of  speculation  and  wistfulness  in  his  eyes 
over  the  placid  magnificence  of  the  Western  Sea — just  dis- 
turbed enough  to  reflect  a  gorgeous  road  of  fire  that  laid  a 
vanishing  track  across  the  waters  up  to  the  open  goal  of  the 
low  sun.  A  faint  breeze  blew  up  the  hill,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
he  leant  his  face  forward  to  drink  the  first  refreshment  of  that 
sweet,  cool  air. 

I  approached  him  more  nearly,  trying  to  read  his  thought, 
rejoicing  in  the  knowledge  that  he  could  neither  sec  nor  appre- 
hend me.  For  though  a  man  may  know  something  of  the  past, 
the  future  is  hidden  from  him, and  I  represented  to  him  a  future 
that  could  only  be  reckoned  in  a  vast  procession  of  centuries. 
Yet  as  I  came  nearer,  so  near  that  I  could  rest  my  hands  on  his 
knees  and  gaze  up  closely  into  his  eyes,  he  shrank  a  little  and 
leaned  slightly  away  from  me,  as  if  he  were  uncertainly  aware 
of  an  unfamiliar,  distasteful  presence.  I  fancied  that  the  mat 
of  hair  on  his  chest  just  perceptibly  bristled. 

I  could  read  his  thought,  now,  and  I  was  thrilled  to  discover 
that  the  expression  of  his  eyes  had  not  misled  me.  He  had  at- 
tained to  a  form  of  conciousness.  He,  alone,  of  all  the  beasts 
had  received  the  gift  of  constructive  imagination.  He  could 
look  forward,  make  plans  to  meet  a  possible  emergency.  He 
knew  already  something  of  tomorrow.  Even  then  he  was  deep 
in  speculation.  That  day  he  had  hunted  a  slow  but  cunning 
little  beast  which  found  a  refuge  among  the  great  boulders  that 
lay  piled  in  gigantic  profusion  along  the  foreshore.  And  he 
had  failed.  Another  quarry  had  been  his,  but  that  particular 
little  beast  had  outwitted  him.  And  now,  longing  for  it,  he 
ruminated  clumsy  lethargic  plans  for  its  capture. 

It  may  have  been  that  the  vmusual  effort  tired  him,  for 
presently  he  slept,  still  hunched  into  the  same  compact  heap, 
crouching  with  an  effect  of  swift  alertness  as  if  he  were  ready 
B 


1  8  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

at  the  least  alarm  to  leap  up  and  vanish  into  the  cover  of  the 
forest. 

Then,  a  plan  came  to  me,  also.  I  would  bring  a  vision  to 
this  primitive  ancestor  of  mankind.  I  would  merge  myself  with 
his  being  and  he  should  dream  a  dream  of  the  immensely  dis- 
tant future.  Blessed  and  privileged  above  all  the  iuiman  race, 
he  should  know  for  an  instant  to  what  inconceivable  develop- 
ments, to  what  towering  heights  of  intellectual  and  manipula- 
tive glory  his  descendants  should  one  day  be  heir.  I  had  no 
definite  idea  of  the  precise  illustration  I  should  choose  to  set 
forth  the  magnificence  of  man's  latest  attainment.  Nor  did  I 
pause  to  consider  what  I  myself  might  suffer  in  the  process  of 
this  infamous  liaison  between  the  ages.  I  acted  on  an  impulse 
that  I  found  irresistible.  I  have  myself  longed  so  often  to  read 
the  distant  future  of  mankind,  that  I  felt  as  a  god  bestowing  an 
inestimable  gift.  But  I  should  have  known  that  in  the  mystical 
union  it  is  the  eod  and  not  the  man  who  suffers. 


I  was  wrapped  in  an  awful  darkness  as  wc  fell  stupendously 
through  time,  but  presently  I  knew  that  we  were  rising  again, 
weighted  with  the  burden  of  primitive  flesh.  Then  in  an  instant 
came  a  strange  yellow  unnatural  light,  the  roaring  of  a  terrible 
sound — and  the  fearful  vision.  The  horror  of  it  was  unendur- 
able; the  shock  of  it  so  great  that  spirit  and  flesh  were  rent 
asunder.  I  remained.  He  fell  back  to  the  sweetness  of  the  cool 
air  blowing  up  from  the  tranquil  sea. 

Did  he  rush  frantically  into  the  forest  or  sit  with  dripping 
mouth  and  wide  alarmed  eyes,  rigidly  staring  at  the  scarlet  rim 
of  the  setting  sun."*  Yet  what  could  he  have  understood  of  the 
future  in  that  moment  of  detestable  revelation?  Could  he  have 
recognised  men  and  women  in  their  strange  disguise  of  modern 
dress,  as  being  even  of  the  same  species  as  himself?  And  if  he 
had,  what  could  he  have  known  of  them,  seeing  them  packed 
so  closely  together,  immoveably  wedged  into  the  terror  of  that 


THE  CAGE  19 

rocking  roaring  cage  of  unknown  material;  seeing  them  occu- 
pied in  staring  so  intently  and  incomprehensibly  at  those  amaz- 
ing little  black-dotted  white  sheets?  Impossible  for  him  to  guess 
that  those  speckled  sheets  held  a  magic  that  transported  his 
descendants  from  the  misery  of  their  cage  into  imaginations 
so  extensive  and  so  various  that  some  of  them  might,  however 
dimly  and  allusively,  include  himself,  hunched  and  ruminant, 
regarding  the  vast  tranquillity  of  the  sea. 

The  tunnel  suddenly  broke,  the  roaring  gave  place  to  a 
rattle  that  by  contrast  was  gentle  and  soothing.  I  opened  my 
eyes.  We  were  under  the  sky  again,  slipping,  with  intermittent 
flashes  of  light,  into  the  harbour  of  Golder's  Green  Station. 

For  a  moment,  I  seemed  to  see  the  clumsy  and  violent 
shape  of  a  beast  that  strove  in  panic  to  escape;  and  then  I  came 
back  to  my  own  world  of  the  patient  readers,  with  their  white, 
controlled  faces,  forming  now  in  solemn  procession  down  the 
aisle  of  the  carriage. 

But  it  was  his  dream,  not  mine.  And  I  have  been  wonder- 
ing whether,  if  I  dreamed  also,  the  distant  future  might  not 
seem  equally  unendurable  to  me? 


KNLARGKMKNT 


WHEN  he  heard  the  first  signal,  warning  the  people  of 
London  to  take  cover,  his  spirit  revolted. 

He  began  to  picture  with  a  sick  disgust  the  scene  of  his 
coming  confinement  in  the  ilirtv  basement.  Mrs.  Gibson,  his 
landlady,  would  welcome  him  with  the  air  of  forced  cheerful- 
ness he  knew  so  well.  She  would  make  the  same  remarks 
about  the  noise  of  the  guns.  She  would  say  again:  "Well, 
there's  one  thing,  it  drowns  the  noise  of  the  bombs — if  they've 
recly  got  here  this  time."  Then  Maunders  from  the  first  floor 
would  say  that  you  could  always  pick  out  the  sound  of  the  aerial 
torpedoes;  and  explain,  elaborately,  why.  Mrs.  Graham  from 
the  second  floor  would  say  that  she'd  rather  enjoy  it,  if  it  weren't 
for  the  children.  And  her  eldest  little  prig  of  a  boy  would  say, 
"I'm  not  afraid,  mumma,"  and  expect  everyone  to  praise  his 
courage.  Mrs.  Gibson  would  praise  him,  of  course.  She  would 
say:  "There,  now,  1  declare  he's  the  bravest  of  anyone."  She 
was  obliged  to  do  it.  She  would  never  be  able  to  get  new 
lodgers  this  winter  And  when  that  preliminary  talk  was  done 
with,  they  would  all  begin  again  on  the  endlessly  tedious  topic 
of  reprisals;  and  keep  it  up  until  a  pause  in  the  barrage  set  them 
on  to  spasmodic  ejaculations  of  wonder  whether  "they"  had 
been  driven  off,  or  gone,  or  been  shot  down,  or.  .  .  . 

No;  definitely,  h.c  would  not  stand  it.  He  could  better 
endure  the  simultaneous  explosion  of  every  gun  in  London 
than  three  hours  of  that  conversation.  Moreover,  he  could 
not  face  the  horrible  drip,  drip,  from  the  scullery  sink.  On  the 
night  of  the  last  raid  he  had  been  very  near  the  sink.  And  the 
thought  of  that  steady  plop  ....  plop  ....  of  water  into  the 
gally-pot  Mrs.  Gibson  kept  under  the  tap  for  some  idiotic 
reason,  was  as  the  thought  of  an  inferno  such  as  could  not  have 


ENLARGEMENT  21 

been  conceived  by  Dante,  nor  organised  by  the  Higher  Ger- 
man Command. 

Nerves?  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  In  a  sense,  no  doubt. 
Suspense,  dread,  a  long  exasperation  of  waiting  had  filled  every 
commonplace  experience — more  particularly  that  dreadful 
dripping  of  the  cold  water  tap — with  all  kinds  of  horrible  as- 
sociations. But  if  it  was  "nerves,"  it  was  not  nervousness,  not 
fear  of  being  killed,  nothing  in  the  least  like  panic.  He  was 
quite  willing  to  face  the  possible  danger  of  the  open  streets. 
But  he  could  not  and  would  not  face  Mrs.  Gibson  and  the 
scullery  sink. 

No;  he  must  escape — a  fugitive  from  protection.  Men 
had  fled  from  strange  things,  but  had  they  ever  fled  from  a 
stranger  thing  than  refuge?  He  must  go  secretly.  If  Mrs.  Gib- 
son heard  him  she  would  stop  him,  begin  an  immense,  unen- 
durable argument.  She  could  not  afford  to  risk  the  loss  of  a 
lodger  this  winter.  She  would  bring  Maunders  and  Mrs. 
Graham  to  join  her  in  persuasion  and  protest.  Freedom  was 
hard  to  win  in  London,  in  such  times  as  these. 

He  crept  down  the  long  three  flights  of  stairs  like  some 
wary  criminal  feeling  h.is  cautious  way  to  liberty.  But  once  he 
had,  with  infinite  deliberation,  slipped  back  the  ailing  latch  of 
the  front  door,  he  lifted  his  head  and  squared  his  shoulders  with 
a  great  gasp  of  relief.  He  could  have  wept  tears  of  exultation. 
He  was  filled  with  a  deep  thankfulness  for  this  boon  of  his  en- 
largement. .  .  . 

There  was  no  sound  of  guns  as  yet;  nor  any  sweep  of 
searchlights  tormenting  the  wide  gloom  of  the  sky.  It  was  a 
wonderful,  calm  night ;  a  little  misty  on  the  ground ;  but,  above, 
the  moon  was  serene  and  bright  as  a  new  guinea. 

He  had  no  hesitation  as  to  his  direction.  He  desired  the 
greatest  possible  expansion  of  outlook;  and  turned  his  face  at 
once  towards  the  river.  On  the  Embankment  he  would  be 
able  to  see  a  wide  arc  of  the  sky.  He  had  a  sense  of  setting 
about  a  prohibited  adventure,  full  of  the  most  daring  and  deli- 


2  2  SIGNS  AND  WONDfeRS 

cious  excitements.  His  one  dread  was  that  he  might  be  inter- 
fered with,  stopped,  sent  home. 

The  cycliriLr  policemen  looked  at  him,  he  thought,  with 
peculiar  suspicion.  They  gruffly  shouted  at  him  to  take  cover, 
with  a  curt  note  of  warning,  as  if  he  were  breaking  the  law  by 
indulging  himself  in  this  escapade.  He  tried  to  avoid  notice 
by  slinking  into  the  shadows.  That  cold,  inimical  moonlight 
made  everything  so  conspicuous.  .  .  . 

Except  for  the  policemen,  the  streets  were  vividly  empty. 
He  could  feel  the  spirit  of  London  crouched  in  expectancy. 
Behind  every  darkened  window  men,  women,  and  children 
waited  and  lojiged  for  the  relief  of  the  first  gun.  And  while 
they  waited  they  chattered  and  smiled.  And  all  their  laughter 
and  conversation  was  like  these  streets,  vividly  empty;  their 
spirits  had  taken  cover. 

He  alone  was  free,  exempt,  rejoicing  in  his  liberty.  .  .  . 

The  ground  mist  was  thicker  on  the  Embankment;  and 
for  a  moment  he  was  confused  by  the  loom  of  a  strange  obelisk 
that  had  a  curiously  remote,  exotic  air  in  the  midst  of  this  fam- 
iliar London.  Then  he  recognised  the  outline  as  that  of  Cleo- 
patra's Needle,  and  went  close  up  to  the  alien  monument  of 
another  age  and  stared  up  at  it  in  the  proclamatory  moonlight. 
He  wondered  if  any  magic  lingered  in  those  cryptic  inscrip- 
tions? If  they  might  not  have  endowed  the  very  granite  with 
curious,  occult  powers.  He  was  still  staring  at  the  solemn 
portent  of  the  obelisk  when  the  barrage  opened  with  unusual 
suddenness.  .  .  . 

For  a  time  he  was  crushed  and  overwhelmed  by  the  pressure 
of  that  intimidating  fury  of  sound.  He  cowered  and  winced 
like  a  naked  soul  exposed  to  the  intimate  vengeance  of  God. 
He  was  as  beaten  and  battered  by  the  personal  threat  of  those 
cumulative  explosions  as  if  every  gun  sought  him  and  him  alone 
as  the  objective  of  its  awful  wrath. 

But,  by  degrees,  he  began  to  grow  accustomed  even  to  that 
world-rocking  pandemonium.   He  became  aware  of  the  un- 


ENLARGEMENT  23 

dertones  that  laced  the  dominant  roar  and  thunder  of  artillery. 
He  could  trace,  he  believed,  beside  the  shriek  of  shell,  the 
humming  whirr  of  an  aeroplane  he  could  not  see.  And  once 
something  whizzed  past  him  with  a  high  singing  hiss  that 
ended  abruptly  with  a  sharp  clip.  He  guessed  that  a  fragment 
of  shrapnell  had  buried  itself  in  one  of  the  plane-trees. 

Yet  the  real  danger  of  that  warning  did  not  terrify  him  as 
had  the  enormous  onslaught  of  noise  from  the  barrage.  At  the 
next  intermission  of  the  deafening  bombardment  he  stood  up, 
rested  his  hand  on  the  plinth  of  the  obelisk,  and  stared,  won- 
dering and  unafraid,  into  the  great  arc  of  the  sky.  He  could 
see  no  aeroplanes.  .  .  .  The  stillness  was  so  profound  that  he 
could  hear  with  a  grateful  distinctness  the  soft  clucking  ripple 
of  the  rising  flood. 

Presently  he  dropped  his  regard  for  the  heavens  to  the  plain 
objective  of  deserted  London.  The  mist  had  almost  dispersed 
in  some  places,  had  thickened  in  others — churned  and  driven, 
perhaps,  by  the  vast  pressure  of  the  sound  waves.  Across  the 
road  he  could  see  the  impending  cliff  of  great  buildings,  pale 
and  tall  in  the  moonlight.  At  his  feet  the  plane-trees  threw 
trembling,  skeleton  shadows.  All  the  town  waited  in  suspense 
to  know  whether  or  not  the  bombardment  would  presently  be 
renewed. 

He  had  a  presentiment  that  it  was  all  over.  He  felt  the 
quick  exaltation  and  vigour  of  one  who  has  suffered  and  escaped 
danger.  But  when  he  looked  up  the  Embankment  and  saw 
what  he  took  to  be  the  silhouettes  of  three  towering  trams 
emerging  with  furti\e  silence  from  the  mist,  he  was  aware  of 
a  faint  sense  of  disappointment.  Nothing  was  left  to  him  but 
to  return  to  the  common  dreariness  of  life. 

He  took  a  step  towards  the  trams  that  were  advancing  with 
such  a  stately,  such  a  hushed  and  ponderous  deliberation.  .  .  , 

Trams  .  .  .  ? 

He  held  his  breath,  staring  and  gaping,  and  then  backed 
nervously  against  the  pedestal  of  the  greatEgyptian  monument. 


2  4  SIC  NS  AND  WONDERS 

H.iJ  tlic  shock  of  th;it  awful  bomb.irdincnt  broken  his 
ncrsc?  Was  ho  mail?  Hcwitchcti  by  some  aiuicnt  ma;^ic?  Or 
was  it,  perhaps,  that  in  one  swift  inappreciable  moment  he  hail 
been  instantly  killed  by  a  fragment  of  shrapnel,  and  that,  now, 
his  emerging  spirit  could,  even  as  it  watched  these  familiar 
surroundings,  peer  back  deep  into  the  hidden  mysteries  of  tinu? 

He  pressed  himself,  shivering  and  fascinated,  against  tlie 
hard,  insistent  reality  of  cold  granite;  but  still  in  single  file 
these  three  colossal  shapes  advanced, solemn  and  majestic,  rock- 
ing magnificently  with  a  slow  and  powerful  gravity. 

They  were  almost  abreast  of  him  now,  sombre  and  siolid — 
three  vast,  prehistoric,  unattended  Elephants,  imperturbably 
exploring  the  silences  of  this  dead  and  lonely  city. 

They  passed,  and  left  him  weak  and  trembling,  but  indes- 
cribably happy. 

Two  minutes  later,  a  blind  and  insensible  policeman,  fol- 
lowing the  very  path  of  those  magical  evocations  of  the  thouglu 
of  ancient  Egypt,  rode  carelessly  by,  bearing  the  banal  message 
that  all  was  clear. 

But  the  adventurer  walked  home  in  a  dieam  of  ecstasy. 
Whatever  the  future  might  hold  for  him,  he  luid  pierced  the 
veil  of  the  commonplace.  He  had  seen  and  heard  on  the  Thames 
Embankment  that  sacred,  mystical  procession  of  the  Elephants. 

7^  ^  'r: 

He  looked  at  Mrs.  Gibson  with  something  of  contempt 
when  she  brought  him  his  breakfast  next  morning.  He  could 
not  respond  to  her  chatter  concerning  the  foolish  detail  of  last 
night's  raid.  She,  poor  woman,  was  afraid  that  she  might,  in 
some  unknown  way,  have  offended  him.  Her  last  cHbrt  was 
meant  as  an  aimiable  diversion.  One  never  knew  whether 
people  weren't  more  scared  than  they  chose  to  admit. 

"There's  one  amusin'  bit,"  she  said,  laying  his  morning 
paper  on  the  table,  "as  I  just  glanced  at  while  I  was  waitin' 
for  the  water  to  boil.  It's  in  Hincidents  of  the  Raid.  It  seems 


ENLARGEMENT  2$ 

as  three  performin'  elephunts  goin'  'ome  from  the  'Ippodrome 
or  somewhere  got  loose — their  keeper  done  a  bolt,  I  suppose, 
when  the  guns  began — and  got  walkin'  off  by  theirselves  all 
down  the  Embankment.  They  must  'a  been  a  comic  sight, 
poor  things.  Terrified  they  was,  no  doubt.  .  .  ." 

Now,  why  should  God  explain  his  miracles  through  the 
mouth  of  a  Mrs.  Gibson? 


'ini:ri:Rn:cr  SMILE 


THE  REALISATION  ofii  fust  cunc  to  Douglas  Owcii 
when  he  was  not  quite  five  years  olil. 

From  his  babyhood  he  had  been  spoilt,  more  particularly 
by  his  father.  He  could  be  such  a  charmiiii:;  little  boy,  and  his 
frequent  outbreaks  of  real  iiau^:2;htiiiess  wore  overlooked  or 
gently  reproved.  They  were  even  admired  in  private  by  his 
parents,  who  regarded  these  first  signs  of  disobedience,  temper, 
and  selfishness  as  the  marks  of  an  independent  and  original 
spirit. 

Nevertheless,  when  DougLis  was  nearly  five  years  old,  he 
achieved  a  minor  climax  that  the  most  indulgent  father  could 
not  overlook.  Despite  all  warnings  and  commands,  Douglas 
would  steal  from  the  larder.  When  there  were  cakes  or  tarts 
he  took  those  for  preference,  but  when  there  was  nothing  else 
he  would  steal  bread,  merely,  as  it  seemed,  for  the  pleasure  of 
stealing  it.  His  father  had  protested  to  his  mother  that  every- 
thing should  be  kept  under  lock  and  key,  but  as  Mrs.  Owen 
explained:  "You  can't  expect  a  cook  to  be  for  ever  locking 
things  up."  And  the  little  Douglas  was  ingenious  in  Jiis  de- 
predations. He  chose  liis  moment  with  cunning.  Also  he  knew, 
as  the  cook  herself  confessed,  how  'to  gjt  round  her.' 

Mr.  Owen,  who  was  a  tender-hearted  idealist,  admitted 
at  last  that  stern  measures  were  called  for,  and  he  took  Doug- 
las into  his  study  and  remonstrated  with  him  gently,  even 
lovingly,  but  with  great  earnestness.  The  remonstrance  gained 
strength  from  Mrs.  Owen's  fear  that  Douglas  might  make 
himself  seriously  ill  by  his  illicit  feastings.  Douglas,  who  was 
forward  for  his  age,  listened  witli  attention  to  his  father's  ser- 
ious lecture  and  promised  reform.  "I  won't  do  it  again,  father. 
Promise,"  he  said  with  apparent  sincerity.  And  his  father,  be- 


1'HE  Perfect  smile  27 

lieving  absolutely  in  his  child's  truthfulness,  and  remembering 
his  wife's  adjuration  to  be  "really  firm,"  was  tempted  to  clinch 
the  thing  once  for  all  by  issuing  an  ultimatum. 

"I'm  sure  you  won't,  little  son,"  he  said,  "because  you  see 
if  you  did,  daddy  would  have  to  whack  you.  He'd  hate  doing 
it,  but  he'd  have  to  do  it  all  the  same." 

Douglas's  expression  was  faintly  speculative.  He  had  heard 
something  like  this  before,  from  his  mother. 

"But  you've  promised  faithfully  that  you'll  never,  never 
take  anything  out  of  the  larder,  or  the  kitchen,  or  the  pantry 
again,  haven't  you,  darling?"  Mr.  Owen  persisted,  by  way  of 
having  everything  quite  clear. 

"Promised  faithfully,"  agreed  Douglas;  parted  from  his 
father  with  a  hug  of  forgiveness;  and  was  found  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  later  in  the  larder,  eating  jam  with  a  spoon  from  a  newly- 
opened  jar. 

"You  threatened  to  whack  him  if  he  didn't  keep  his  pro- 
mise, and  you  must  do  it,"  Mrs.  Owen  said  firmly  to  her  hus- 
band. "If  you  don't  keep  your  promises,  how  can  you  expect 
him  to  keep  his?" 

"Damn!"  murmured  Mr.  Owen  with  great  intensity. 

"I  shall  bring  him  in  and  leave  him  with  you,"  his  wife 
said,  cor  rectly  interpreting  her  husband's  method  of  reluctantly 
accepting  the  inevitable. 

Douglas  was  brought,  and  it  was  evident  that  on  this  oc- 
casion he  was  truly  conscious  of  sin  and  apprehensive  of  the 
result.  All  his  nonchalance  was  gone  from  him.  He  did  not 
cry,  but  his  eyes  were  wide  and  terrified.  He  looked  a  tho- 
roughly guilty  and  scared  child. 

Mr.  Owen  hardened  his  heart.  He  thought  of  the  con- 
tempt shown  for  his  authority,  of  the  wilfully  broken  promise, 
and  of  the  threat  to  his  son's  future  unless  he  were  made  to 
realise  that  sin  cannot  go  unpunished. 

Mrs.  Owen,  looking  at  her  husband's  stern  face,  was  sat- 
isfied that  justice  would  be  done. 


28  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

Ai)J  then,  when  father  aiul  son  were  alone  and  sentence 
had  been  pronounced,  the  smile  came  for  the  first  time. 

Douglas  did  not  know  wiiy  or  how  it  came.  He  was  only 
conscious  of  it  as  something  that  illuminated  his  whole  being, 
put  him  among  the  angels,  and  gave  him  immunity  from  all 
earthly  terrors. 

To  his  father,  the  smile  was  simply  blinding.  It  was  so 
radiant,  so  tender,  forgiving,  and  altogether  godlike.  It  condes- 
cended to  his  weakness  and  mortality,  and  made  him  feel  how 
unworthy  he  was  of  such  splendid  recognition.  His  little  son's 
face  glowed  with  a  perfect  consciousness  of  power,  and  yet  he 
seemed  to  surrender  himself  with  a  dignified  humility  to  this 
threatened  infamy  of  corporal  punishment.  Moreover,  it  was 
a  smile  that  expressed  the  ultimate  degree  of  innocence.  It 
was  impossible  for  anjone  who  saw  it  to  b^^licve  that  Douglas 
could  have  sinned  in  pcrvcrsit)-,  or  with  any  evil  intention. 

And  there  was  one  other  amazing  peculiarity  about  this 
rare  smile  of  Douglas's,  for  it  not  only  permeated  the  finer 
feelings  of  those  who  witnessed  it,  but  was  also  reflected  weak- 
ly in  their  faces,  as  the  outer  and  larger  rainbow  reflects  the 
intensified  beauty  of  the  inner. 

So  now  Mr.  Owen's  smile  faintly  echoed  his  son's. 

"I'm  sorry.  Daddy,"  said  Douglas  confidently. 

And  Mrs.  Owen  waiting  outside,  listening  in  tremulous 
agitation  for  the  wail  that  should  announce  her  husband's  re- 
solution, heard  no  sound.  And  presently  Douglas  came  out, 
still  wearing  the  last  pale  evidences  of  his  recent  halo. 

"But  why  didn't  your"  Mrs.  Owen  asked  her  husband, 
when  their  son  was  out  of  earshot.  She  would  have  overlooked 
the  essential  omission,  almost  with  gratitude,  if  she  had  not 
believed  it  her  duty  to  reprove  her  husband's  characteristic 
weakness. 

"He — he  smiled,"  Mr.  Owen  said. 

"But  Harold !"  his  wife  protested. 

Mr.  Owen  wrinkled  his  forehead  and  looked  exceedingly 


THE  PERFECT  SMILE  29 

distressed.  "I  don't  know  that  I  can  explain/'  he  said.  "It 
wasn't  an  ordinary  smile.  I've  never  seen  him  do  it  before.  I 
— I  have  never  seen  anything  like  it,  I  can  only  say  that  I 
would  defy  anyone  to  punish  him  when  he  smiled  like  that." 

"I  noticed  as  he  came  out.  ..."  began  Mrs.  Owen. 

"It  was  practically  over  then,"  her  husband  interrupted, 
and  added  with  a  slightly  literary  turn  of  speech  he  sometimes 
adopted:  "That  was  only  the  afterglow." 

But  it  is  worth  recording  that,  from  that  time,  Douglas, 
although  he  was  naughty  enough  in  other  ways,  never  robbed 
the  larder  again. 


Nine  years  passed  before  Douglas's  great  gift  was  once 
more  manifested. 

There  was  undoubtedly  something  unusually  charming 
about  the  boy  that  protected  him  from  punishment;  and  as  he 
had  been  spoilt  by  his  father  at  home,  so  was  he  also  treated 
rather  too  leniently  at  school.  But  Dr.  Watson,  his  head- 
master, came  at  last  to  the  end  of  his  weakness.  Douglas  was 
becoming  a  bad  influence  in  the  school.  His  careless  evasions 
of  discipline  set  an  example  of  insubordination  that  was  all  too 
readily  followed  by  the  other  boys. 

Dr.  Watson  braced  himself  to  the  inevitable.  In  his  heart 
he  regretted  the  necessity,  but  he  knew  that  Douglas  must  be 
sacrificed  for  the  good  of  the  school.  He  had  been  warned  and 
mildly  punished  a  hundred  times.  Now  he  must  pay  the  full 
penalty. 

The  choice  lay  between  expulsion  and  a  public  flogging, 
and  when  Douglas  chose  the  latter,  Dr.  Watson  resolved  that 
the  flogging  should  be  of  unusual  severity.  When  the  whole 
school  was  assembled,  he  made  a  very  earnest  and  moving 
speech,  deploring  the  causes  that  had  given  rise  to  the  occasion, 
and  showing  how  inevitable  was  the  disgraceful  result. 

Pouglas,  white  and  terrified,  made  ready  in  a  trembling 


30  SKINS  AND  WONDERS 

silence,  then,  turninij  his  hack  on  tlic  tensely  expectant  audi- 
ence, he  faced  Itis  headmaster. 

Artiiur  Cohurn,  DouL;las's  humanitarian  house-master, 
was  so  upset  by  these  preliminaries  that  for  one  moment  he 
was  tempted  to  leave  the  hall.  Corporal  punishment  had  al- 
ways seemed  to  him  a  horrible  thin:;;,  but  never  had  it  seemed 
quite  so  revolting  as  on  this  occasion.  Yet  he  fought  against 
ilic  feeling.  He  knew  that  his  chief  was  neither  a  stern  nor  a 
cruel  man,  and  had  been  driven  into  the  present  position  by 
the  shcerly  impudent  persistence  of  Douglas's  disobedience. 
By  v/ay  of  alleviating  as  far  as  possible  his  own  nervous  distress, 
therefore,  Coburn  took  up  a  position  with  his  back  to  the  ros- 
trum, and  faced  the  great  crowd  of  just  perceptibly  intimidated 
boys. 

And  waiting,  much  as  Douglas's  mother  had  waited  in 
shamed  anxiety  some  nine  years  before,  Coburn  was  amazed 
to  see  a  sudden  and  incomprehensible  change  in  the  massed 
faces  before  him.  The  tensity,  the  look  of  half  eager,  half  ap- 
prehensive expectation  strangely  relaxed.  A  wave  of  what 
looked  like  relief  ran  back  in  a  long  ripple  of  emotion  from  the 
front  to  the  back  of  the  many  ranks  of  v/atching  boys.  In  one 
instant  everyone  was  wearing  a  faint  smile  of  almost  holy  se- 
renity. 

Coburn  turned  with  a  leap  of  astonishment  and  stared  at 
Dr.  Watson.  And  the  smile  he  saw  on  the  headmaster's  face 
outshone  that  on  the  faces  of  his  audience  as  the  sun  outshines 
the  moon. 

But  no  one  save  Dr.  Watson  saw  the  perfect  radiance  that 
flowed  out  from  the  face  of  Douglas  Owen.  .  .  . 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  was  all  that  Douglas  said. 

Dr.  Watson  dropped  his  birch  as  if  it  had  burnt  him. 

His  second  address  to  the  school  was  hesitating  and  apolo- 
getic. He  tried  to  explain  that  when  the  clear  signs  of  repen- 
tance and  of  reform  were  so  evident  as  they  were  in  the  case 
of  Owen,  corporal  punishment  was  superfluous  and  would  be 


THE  PERFECT  SMILE  3 1 

little  short  of  criminal.  Yet  even  Coburn,  v/ho  so  profoundly 
agreed  with  the  principle  expounded,  found  the  explanation 
unsatisfying.  He  could  not  help  feeling  that  Dr.  Watson  was 
concealing  his  true  reason. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  well  to  note  that  after  this  reprieve 
Douglas  passed  the  remainder  of  his  school-life  without  com- 
mitting any  other  serious  offence. 

He  was  only  thirty-two  when  he  came  before  the  last  and 
most  terrible  tribunal  possible  in  our  society. 

After  he  left  Cambridge,  he  was  taken  into  a  city  office 
by  a  friend  of  his  father's.  Everyone  liked  him,  and  he  might 
have  made  an  excellent  position  for  himself  if  he  had  not  led 
such  a  loose  life  out  of  business  hours.  He  seemed  unable  to 
resist  any  temptation,  and  the  inevitable  result  was  that  he  got 
into  debt. 

When  his  father's  friend  discovered  the  extent  of  Douglas's 
thefts  from  the  firm,  he  had  no  choice  but  to  dismiss  him;  al- 
though for  the  young  man's  sake  not  less  than  for  the  sake  of 
his  friendship  with  his  father,  he  never  even  threatened  prose- 
cution. 

For  a  time  Douglas  lived  at  home.  Later  he  went  to  Ca- 
nada for  a  couple  of  years.  Then  his  father  died,  leaving  him 
some  five  or  six  thousand  pounds,  and  he  came  home  again — 
to  spend  it.  When  that  money  was  all  gone,  he  lived  on  the 
charity  of  his  many  friends.  They  all  knew  him  for  an  incor- 
rigible scamp,  but  he  still  retained  much  of  his  old  charm. 

The  crime  for  which  he  came  at  last  to  be  tried  for  his  life 
at  the  Old  Bailey  was  too  disgraceful  an  affair  to  be  reported 
in  detail.  The  only  possible  defence  was  that  Douglas  was 
unquestionably  drunk  when  the  murder  was  actually  commit- 
ted. Yet  despite  the  weakness  of  the  case  for  the  defending 
counsel,  everyone  in  court  including  the  jury  and  possibly  even 
Lord  Justice  Ducie  himself,  could  not  restrain  a  feeling  of  sym- 
pathy for  the  prisoner.  He  had  not  lost,  despite  all  his  excesses, 
his  engaging  air  of  ingenuous  youth.  And  his  manner  through- 


^2  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

out  the  trial  naturally  evoked  n  strong  sense  of  pity. 

The  jury  did  all  they  could  for  him  by  bringing  in  a  ver- 
dict of  manslaughter. 

The  judge  leaned  forward  with  a  kindly,  almost  fatherly 
nir,  as  he  nskcd  the  prisoner  if  he  had  aii)thing  to  say  in  his 
own  defence. 

And  at  that  supreme  moment,  as  he  stood  white  and  ter- 
rified in  the  dock,  Douglas  was  aware  that  once  more,  for  the 
third  time  in  his  life,  that  wonderful  glow  of  power,  peace,  and 
condescension  was  beginning  to  thrill  through  him. 

He  straightened  himself  and  raised  his  head.  He  looked 
the  judge  in  the  face.  He  believed  that  the  perfect  smile  had 
come  again  to  save  him.  But  he  looked  in  vain  for  the  old  res- 
ponse. 

The  judge's  mouth  had  twitched  as  Douglas  looked  at 
him,  and  for  one  instant  all  those  who  were  waiting  so  anxious- 
ly for  the  pronouncement  of  the  sentence  were  astounded  to 
see  a  look  of  horrible  bestiality  flicker  across  the  face  of  the  old 
man  who  was  accounted  the  most  gentle  and  philanthropic 
judge  who  had  ever  sat  in  the  criminal  court.  It  was  only  a 
momentary  impression,  for  Lord  Ducie  at  once  put  both  hands 
before  his  face  as  if  to  shut  off  the  sight  of  some  terrible  infamy; 
but  Bateson,  the  defending  counsel,  who  was  watching  the 
judge,  says  that  he  never  afterwards  could  quite  recover  his  old 
respect  for  him. 

It  is  unquestionably  true  that  the  hideous,  depraved,  and 
insulting  grimace  which  had  so  unexpectedly  revealed  the  soul 
of  Douglas  Owen,  was  solely  responsible  for  the  maximum 
sentence  of  twenty  years'  penal  servitude  that  was  imposed 
upon  him. 

If  a  man  continually  flouts  the  angels  of  grace,  he  must 
expect  at  last  to  be  delivered  over  to  the  devil  he  so  devotedly 
serves. 


Tin:  HIDDEN  beast 


HIS  HOUSE  is  the  last  in  the  village.  Towards  the  forest 
the  houses  become  more  and  more  scattered,  reaching 
out  to  the  wild  of  the  wood  as  if  they  yearned  to  separate  them- 
selves from  the  swarm  that  clusters  about  the  church  and  the 
iim.  And  his  house  has  taken  so  long  a  stride  from  the  others 
that  it  is  held  to  the  village  by  no  more  than  the  slender  thread 
of  a  long  footpath.  Yet  the  house  is  set  with  its  face  towards 
us,  and  has  an  air  of  resolutely  holding  on  to  the  safety  of  our 
common  life,  as  if  dismayed  at  its  boldness  in  swimming  so  far 
it  had  turned  and  desperately  grasped  the  life-line  of  that  foot- 
path. 

He  lived  alone,  a  strange  man,  surly  and  reticent.  Some 
said  that  he  had  a  siin'stcr  look;  and  on  those  rare  occasions 
when  he  joined  us  at  the  inn,  after  sunset,  he  sat  aside  and  spoke 
little. 

I  was  surprised  when,  as  we  came  out  of  the  inn  one  night, 
he  took  my  arm  and  asked  me  if  I  would  go  home  with  him. 
The  moon  was  at  the  full,  and  the  black  shadows  of  the  dis- 
persing crowd  that  lunged  down  the  street  seemed  to  gesticu- 
late an  alarm  of  weird  dismay.  The  village  was  momentarily 
mad  with  the  clatter  of  footsteps  and  the  noise  of  laughter,  and 
somewhere  down  towards  the  forest  a  dog  was  baying. 

I  wondered  if  I  had  not  misunderstood  him. 

As  he  watched  my  hesitation  his  face  pleaded  with  me. 
"There  are  times  when  a  man  is  glad  of  company,"  he  said. 

We  spoke  little  as  we  passed  through  the  village  towards 
thesilenccsof  his  lonely  house.  But  wjien  we  came  to  the  foot- 
path he  stopped  and  looked  back. 

"I  live  between  two  worlds,"  he  said,  "the  wild  and.  .  . 
— he  paused  before  he  rejected  the  obvious  antithesis,  and  con- 


THE  HIDDEN  BEAST  35 

eluded — "the  restrained." 

"Are  we  so  restrained?"  I  asked,  staring  at  the  huddle  of 
black-and-silver  houses  clinging  to  their  refuge  on  the  hill. 

He  murmured  something  about  a  "compact,"  and  my 
thoughts  turned  to  the  symbol  of  the  chalk-white  church- 
tower  that  dominated  the  honeycomb  of  the  village. 

"The  compact  of  public  opinion,"  he  said  more  boldly. 

My  imagination  lagged.  I  was  thinking  less  of  him  than 
of  the  transfiguration  of  the  familiar  scene  before  me.  I  did 
not  remember  ever  to  have  studied  it  thus  under  the  reflections 
of  a  full  moon.  An  echo  of  his  word,  differently  accented,  drif- 
ted through  my  mind.  I  saw  our  life  as  being  in  truth  compact, 
little  and  limited. 

He  took  up  his  theme  again  when  we  had  entered  the  house 
and  were  facing  each  other  across  the  table,  in  a  room  that 
looked  out  over  the  forest.  The  shutters  were  unfastened,  the 
window  open,  and  I  could  see  how,  on  the  further  shore  of  the 
waste-lands,  the  light  feebly  ebbed  and  died  against  the  black 
cliff  of  the  wood. 

"We  have  to  choose  between  freedom  and  safety,"  he  said. 
"The  individual  is  too  wild  and  dangerous  for  the  common 
life.  He  must  make  his  agreement  v/ith  the  community;  sub- 
mit to  become  a  member  of  the  people's  body.  But  I" — he 
paused  and  laughed — "/  have  taken  the  liberty  of  looking  out 
of  the  back  window." 

While  he  spoke  I  had  been  aware  of  a  sound  that  seemed 
to  come  from  below  the  floor  of  the  room  in  which  we  were 
sitting.  And  when  he  laughed  I  fancied  that  I  heard  the  res- 
ponse of  a  snuffling  cry. 

He  looked  at  me  mockingly  across  tlie  table. 

*'It's  an  echo  from  the  jungle,"  he  said.  "Some  trick  of 
reflected  sound.  I  can  always  hear  it  in  this  room  at  night." 

I  shivered  and  stood  up.  "I  prefer  the  safety  of  our  com- 
mon life,"  I  told  him.  "It  may  be  that  I  have  a  limited  mind 
and  am  afraid,  but  I  find  my  happiness  in  the  joys  of  security 


36  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

ai)d  shelter.  The  wild  terrifies  mc." 

"A  limited  mind?"  he  commented.  "Probably  it  is  rather 
that  you  lack  a  fire  in  the  blood." 

I  was  glad  to  leave  him,  and  he  on  his  part  made  no  efl'ort 
to  detain  mc. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  visit  of  mine  that  the  people  first 
began  to  whisper  about  him  in  the  village.  At  the  beginning 
they  brought  no  charge  against  him,  talking  only  of  his  strange- 
ness and  of  his  separation  from  our  common  interests.  But  pre- 
sently I  heard  a  story  of  some  fierce  wild  animal  that  he  caged 
and  tortured  in  the  prison  of  his  house.  One  said  that  he  had 
heard  it  screaming  fn  the  night,  and  another  that  he  had  heard 
it  beating  against  the  door.  And  some  argued  that  it  was  a 
threat  to  our  safety,  since  the  beast  might  escape  and  make  its 
way  into  the  village;  and  some  that  such  brutality,  even  though 
it  were  to  a  wild  animal,  could  not  be  tolerated.  But  I  won- 
dered inwardly  whether  the  affair  were  any  business  of  ours  so 
long  as  he  kept  the  beast  to  himself. 

I  was  a  member  of  the  Council  that  year,  and  so  took  part 
in  the  voting  when  presently  the  case  was  laid  before  us.  But 
no  vote  of  mine  would  have  helped  him  if  I  had  dared  to  over- 
come my  reluctance  and  speak  in  his  favour.  For  whatever 
reservations  may  have  been  secretly  withheld  by  the  members 
of  the  Council,  they  were  unanimous  in  condemning  him. 

We  went,  six  of  us,  in  full  daylight,  to  search  his  house. 
He  received  us  with  a  laugh,  and  told  us  that  we  might  seek 
at  our  leisure.  But  though  we  sought  high  and  low,  peering 
and  tapping,  we  found  no  evidence  that  any  wild  thing  had 
ever  been  concealed  there. 

And  within  a  montli  of  the  day  of  our  search  he  left  the 
village. 

I  saw  him  alone  once  before  he  went,  and  he  told  me  that 
he  had  chosen  for  the  wild  and  freedom,  that  he  could  no  lon- 
ger endure  to  be  held  to  the  village  even  by  the  thread  of  the 
footpath. 


THE  HIDDEN  BEAST  37 

But  he  did  not  thank  me  for  having  allowed  the  search  of 
his  house  to  be  conducted  by  daylight,  although  he  knew  that 
I  at  least  was  sure  no  echo  of  the  forest  could  be  heard  in  that 
little  room  of  his  save  in  the  transfigured  hours  between  the 
dusk  and  the  dawn. 


THE  HARRAGE 

A  STUDY  IN  EA'TROFERSION 


MY  FRIEND  has  a  wonderful  voice,  a  primitive  voice, 
open-throated  and  resonant,  the  great  chest  roar  of  the 
wild.  When  he  shouts  he  docs  it  witliout  visible  eflort.  The 
full  red  of  iiis  face  may  deepen  to  the  opening  shades  of  purple, 
but  that  evidence  of  constriction  is  due  solely  to  emotion.  The 
lift  of  a  major  third  in  his  tone  is  accomplished  without  any  ap- 
pearance of  muscular  effort.  He  opens  another  cylinder  and 
lets  the  additional  power  find  its  own  pitch  in  the  reverberating 
brass  of  the  fog-horn.  And  the  efl'ect  is  as  if  the  devastating 
crash  of  the  barrage  had  come  suddenly  and  horribly  near. 
Perhaps,  for  one  instant,  the  attack  of  his  voice  ceases,  and 
tlien  while  the  room  still  trembles  to  the  echo  of  his  last  state- 
ment, the  barrage  leaps  forward  and  spills  its  explosion  into 
the  secret  refuges  of  my  being. 

Behind  that  cover,  the  sense  of  the  statements  he  gives 
forth  with  such  enormous  assurance  creeps  up  and  falls  upon 
me  while  I  am  still  insensible.  It  is  as  though  his  argument 
bayoneted  me  treacherously  while  I  am  paralysed  from  shock. 
If  my  mind  were  free  I  could  defeat  the  simple  attack  of  his 
argument;  but  should  I  be  given  one  trifling  opportunity  for 
speech  I  can  never  take  it.  My  mind  is  battered,  crushed  and 
inert.  I  dare  not  lift  my  head  for  fear  of  exposing  myself  again 
to  that  awful  approach  of  the  barrage. 

My  friend  has  described  himself  so  conclusively  in  a  term 
of  the  old  free-trade  dispute,  that  nothing  could  be  added  to 
enlighten  his  definition.  He  is,  and  prides  himself  vociferously 
on  the  fact,  a  whole-hogger.  He  gets  that  ofFon  his  lower  regis- 
ter which  is  just  bearable.  There  is  no  need  for  the  barrage 
to  defend  the  approach  of  that  statement.     It  is  self-evident. 


THE  BARRAGE  39 

The  great  welt  of  his  boots,  massive  as  an  Egyptian  plinth; 
the  stiiF  hairiness  of  his  bristling  tweeds;  the  honest  amaze- 
ment of  his  ripe  face;  the  very  solidity  of  the  signet  ring  that 
is  nevertheless  not  too  heavy  for  his  hirsute  finger — all  these 
proclaim  him  as  the  type  and  consummation  of  the  whole- 
hogger. 

He  adopted  the  label  with  pride  some  time  in  the  middle 
'nineties,  when  he  was  already  a  mature,  determined  and  un- 
alterable man  of  twenty-eight.  He  was  a  fervent  patriot 
throughout  the  Boer  War.  He  has,  since  December,  1905, 
spent  a  fount  of  energy  that  would  have  wrecked  the  physique 
of  ten  average  men  in  denouncing  such  things  as  Education 
Bills,  Old  Age  Pensions,  the  Reform  of  the  House  of  Lords, 
Home  Rule — in  brief,  the  Government — or,  as  he  always 
called  it,  ^this  Government.'  And  since  the  beginning  of  the 
war  he  has  demonstrated — proving  every  statement  of  the 
Times  by  the  evidence  of  the  T>aily  Mail — that  there  will 
never  be  any  truth  or  sanity  in  the  world  until  the  whole  Ger- 
man race  is  beaten  to  its  perjured  knees  (his  metaphors  some- 
times have  an  effect  of  concentration);  until  it  is  so  thrashed, 
scourged,  humiliated,  broken  and  defeated  (a  barrage  is  nec- 
essarily redundant)  that  the  last  remaining  descendants  of  the 
Prussian  shall  crawl,  pitifully  exposed  and  humbled,  about  the 
earth,  begging  God  and  man  for  forgiveness. 

My  friend  is,  in  fact,  the  perfect  type  of  what  is  known 
to  psycho-analysts  as  the  extrovert.  He  has  never  questioned 
himself,  never  doubted  the  infallibility  of  his  own  gospel,  never 
known  fear.  He  docs  not  understand  the  meaning  of  the  word 
introspection,  and  feels  nothing  but  pity  for  a  man  who  halts 
between  two  opinions.  He  divides  all  mankind  into  two  cat- 
egories— splendid  fellows  and  damned  fools — although  I  have 
found  the  suggestion  of  a  third  division  in  his  description  of  a 
querulous  Tory  as  'a  damned  fool  on  the  right  side.'  On  the 
wrong  side,  however,  there  are  no  splendid  fellows.  As  he 
says,  he  'hasn't  patience'  with  anyone  who  is  either  so  thick- 


40  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

hcailcd  or  so  unscrupulous  as  to  disagree  with  liiin  in  politics. 

Hy  way  ofa  hobby  he  farms  8oo  acres  of  l.uul,  and  he  has 
never  had  any  trouble  with  his  labourers.  I  will  admit  that  he 
is  generous  with  a  careless,  exuberant  generosity  that  docs  not 
ask  for  gratitude.  But  it  is  not  his  generosity  that  has  won 
for  him  the  devotion  of  his  servants  and  employees.  They 
bow  before  his  certainty.  He  is  a  religion  to  them,  a  trust- 
worthy holdfast  in  this  world  of  unstable  things. 

And  I  suppose  that  is  also  why  he  is  still  'my  friend.'  His 
conversation  is  nothing  but  a  string  of  affirmations  with  none 
of  which  I  can  agree.  He  is  an  intolerable  bote,  and  his  voice 
hurts  me.  But  I  regard  him  with  wonder  and  admiration,  and 
when  the  terrors  and  oppressions  of  the  world  threaten  to  break 
my  spirit  I  go  to  him  for  strength. 

In  the  early  days  of  our  acquaintanceship  I  used  to  try,  by 
facial  contortions  and  parenthetic  gesture,  to  indicate  my  pal- 
try disagreement  with  his  political  and  social  creed.  Perhaps 
I  came  near  at  that  time  to  inclusion  in  the  'Damfool'  cate- 
gory; but  the  nearness  of  my  house,  his  generosity  in  overlook- 
ing the  preliminary  marks  of  my  idiocy,  and  (deciding  factor) 
the  inappcasable  craving  for  company  which  is  his  only  means 
of  expression,  influenced  him  to  give  me  another  and  yet 
another  chance.  He  took  to  putting  up  the  barrage  at  the  least 
sign  of  my  disapproval,  and  so  converted  me — outwardly. 
While  I  am  with  him  I  relax  myself.  I  stare  at  him  and  won- 
der.  I  sometimes  find  myself  wishing  that  I  could  be  like  him ! 

It  was,  indeed,  the  thought  of  so  impossible  and  outrageous 
an  ambition  that  prompted  me  to  attempt  this  portrait  of  him. 
I  have  failed,  I  know,  to  convey  his  proper  quality.  Anyone 
who  has  never  met  my  friend  will  find  nothing  but  the  echo 
and  shadow  of  him  in  this  sketch.  But  is  there  anyone  who 
has  not  met  him  or  some  member  of  his  family?  Down  here 
I  associate  him  with  the  land,  but  he  has  business  interests 
connected  with  the  Stock  Exchange.  And  he  has  brothers, 
uncles  and  sons — any  number  of  them — all  of  the  same  virtue. 


THE  BARRAGE  4! 

They  are  in  the  Army,  the  Law,  Medicine,  in  the  Pulpit,  in 
Trade,  in  the  House — in  everything.  They  are  all  successful, 
and  they  have  all  given  their  services  with  immense  vigour 
and  volubility  to  the  great  task  that  my  friend  defines  as  'down- 
ing the  Hun.'  They  are  all  men  of  action,  and  their  thinking 
is  done  by  a  method  as  simple  as  simple  addition.  A  few  ster- 
ling principles  are  taken  for  granted,  principles  that  can  be 
applied  in  such  phrases  as  'the  good  of  the  country,'  'playing 
the  game,'  'Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day,'  or  'what  I  go  by  is 
facts,'  and  from  these  elementary  premisses  any  and  every 
argument  can  be  deduced  by  the  two-plus-two  method.  It  is 
the  apotheosis  and  triumph  of  a  priorism.  They  do  not  believe 
in  induction,  and  what  they  do  not  believe  in  does  not  exist 
for  them.  Their  strength  is  in  loudness  and  confidence,  and 
they  are  very  strong. 

Nevertheless,  puzzling  over  my  friend  and  his  family  in 
my  own  hair-splitting  way,  I  have  been  wondering  if  this  loud- 
ness is  not  a  sign  that  the  family  has  lost  something  of  its  old 
power?  Their  ancestors,  also,  were  men  of  simple  ideas  and 
strong  passions,  men  of  inflexible  purpose.  But  they  were  not, 
so  far  as  one  can  judge  from  history,  so  blatantly  loud.  They 
bear  the  same  kind  of  relation  to  my  friend  that  Lincoln  does 
to  Roosevelt. 

Is  the  type  changing,  I  ask  myself,  or  only  the  conditions? 
And  if  the  latter,  is  the  man  of  intense  convictions  and  rigid 
principles  become  so  much  of  an  anomaly  in  this  new  world 
of  ours  that  the  development  of  the  barrage  has  become  neces- 
sary as  a  means  of  assertion  against  a  people  who  will  question 
even  such  a  simple  premiss  as  that  two  added  to  two  invariably 
produces  four?  For  they  do  that.  Your  characteristic  man  of 
the  age  will  warn  you  that  the  mathematical  statement  is  an 
assumption  only,  not  a  universal  truth.  He  will  probably  add 
that  in  any  case  it  is  useless  as  an  analogy,  since  it  disregards 
entirely  the  qualitative  value  of 'two.' 

From  the  over-conscientious  mind  such  criticisms  as  this 


41  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

to.ir  aw.iy  the  last  hopes  of  stability.  One  loses  f.iith  in  the 
Cosmos.  Hut  my  friend  smiles  his  pity  for  all  such  damfoolish- 
ncss.  His  solid  feet  are  planted  on  the  solid  earth.  He  knows 
that  two  and  two  make  four.  His  ancestors  have  proved  it  by 
their  actions.  And  if  such  silly  questioning  of  sound  principlcR 
is  persisted  in,  he  waves  it  aside  and  asserts  himself  in  his  usual 
effective  way. 

Nevertheless,  as  I  have  said,  it  seems  that  that  form  of  bar- 
rage was  once  unnecessary. 


r 

I 


THi:  INTROVERT 


NC^THING  is  more  dispiriting  than  the  practice  ofclassi- 
hiiv^  humanity  according  to  "types."  Your  professional 
psycliologist  docs  it  for  his  own  purposes.  This  is  his  way  of 
collating  material  for  the  large  generalisation  he  is  always 
chasing.  His  ideal  is  a  complete  record.  He  would  like  to 
present  us  as  so  many  samples  on  a  labelled  card — the  dif- 
ferences between  the  samples  on  any  one  card  being  ascribed 
to  an  initial  carelessness  in  manufacture.  His  method  is  the 
apotheosis  of  that  of  the  gay  Italian  fortune-teller  one  used  to 
see  about  the  streets,  with  her  little  cage  of  love-birds  that  sized 
you  up  and  picked  you  out  a  suitable  future.  Presently,  we 
hope,  the  psychologist  will  be  able  to  do  that  for  us  with  a 
greater  discrimination.  He  will  take  a  few  measurements,  test 
our  reaction  times,  consult  an  index,  and  hand  us  out  an  in- 
fallible analysis  of  our  "type."  After  that  we  shall  know 
precisely  what  we  are  fitted  for,  and  whether  our  ultimate 
destination  is  the  Woolsack  or  the  Workhouse. 

But  your  psychologist  has  his  uses,  and  it  is  the  amateur 
in  this  sort,  particularly  the  novel-writing  amateur,  who  arouses 
our  protest.  He — I  use  the  pronoun  asexually — docs  not  spend 
himself  in  prophecy,  but  he  deals  us  out  into  packs  with  an  air 
of  knowing  just  where  we  belong.  And  his  novels  prove  how 
right  he  was,  because  you  can  prove  anything  in  a  novel.  His 
readers  like  this  method.  It  is  easy  to  understand,  and  it  pro- 
vides them  with  an  articulate  description  of  the  inevitable 
Jones. 

I  cling  to  that  as  some  justification  for  the  habit,  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  my  own  exhibition  of  the  weakness,  however  dispirit- 
ing. It  is  so  convenient  to  have  a  shorthand  reference  for  Jones 
and  other  of  our  acquaintances.  The  proper  understanding  of 


THE  INTROVERT  45 

any  one  of  them  might  engage  the  leisure  of  a  lifetime;  and  if 
for  general  purposes  we  can  tuck  our  friends  into  some  neat 
category,  we  serve  the  purposes  of  lucidity. 

Lastly,  to  conclude  this  apology,  I  would  plead  that  a  new 
scheme  of  classification,  such  as  that  provided  by  psycho-ana- 
lysis, is  altogether  too  fascinating  to  be  resisted. 

There  is,  for  example,  my  friend  David  Wince,  the  typical 
"introvert,"  and  an  almost  perfect  foil  for  my  friend  the  "ex- 
trovert," previously  described.  The  two  men  loathe  the  sight 
of  one  another.  Contempt  on  one  side  and  fear  on  the  other  is 
a  sufficient  explanation  of  their  mutual  aversion.  Wince,  in- 
deed, has  an  instinctive  fear  of  anything  that  bellows,  and  a 
rooted  distrust  of  most  other  things.  He  suffers  from  a  kind  of 
spiritual  agoraphobia  that  makes  him  scared  and  suspicious  of 
large  generalisations,  broad  horizons  and  cognate  phenomena. 
He  likes,  as  he  says,  to  be  "sure  of  one  step"  before  he  takes 
the  next.  The  open  distances  of  a  political  argument  astound 
and  terrify  him.  He  takes  all  discussions  with  a  great  serious- 
ness, and  displays  an  obstructive  passion  for  definition  and  the 
right  use  of  words.  "What  I  should  like  to  understand"  is  a 
favourite  opening  of  his,  and  the  thing  he  would  like  to  under- 
stand is  almost  invariably  some  abstruse  and  fundamental  de- 
finition. 

The  d priori  method  is  anathema  to  him.  He  is,  in  fact, 
characteristically  unable  to  comprehend  it.  He  has  little  res- 
pect for  a  syllogism  as  such,  because  his  mind  seems  to  work 
backwards,  and  all  his  logical  faculty  is  used  in  the  dissection 
of  premisses.  When  my  exasperation  reaches  the  stage  at  which 
I  say:  "But,  my  dear  fellow,  let  us  take  it  for  granted,  for  the 
sake  of  argument.  ..."  he  wrings  his  hands  in  despair  and 
replies :  "But  that's  the  whole  point,  We  cant  take  these  things 
for  granted.  If  you  don't  examine  your  premisses,  where  are 
you?"  He  has  a  habit  in  conversation  of  emphasizing  such 
words  as  those  I  have  underlined,  and  a  look  of  desolation 
comes  into  his  face  when  he  plaintively  enquires  where  we  arc. 


46  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

At  those  times  I  sec  his  timid,  irresolute  spirit  momentarily 
starinu;  aghast  at  the  threat  of  this  world's  immense  distances; 
before  it  ducks  hack  with  a  sigh  of  relief  into  the  shelter  affor- 
ded bv  his  intn^pectivc  analyses.  "Let  us  be  quite  sure  of  our 
ground,"  he  says,  "before  we  draw  any  deductions."  His 
ground  is,  I  fancy,  a  kind  of  Mug-out.' 

He  h.is  had  an  unfortunate  matrimonial  experience.  His 
wife  ran  away  with  another  man,  some  three  or  four  years  ago, 
and  he  is  trying  to  screw  himself  up  to  the  pitch  of  divorcing 
her.  For  a  vnMi  of  his  sensitiveness,  the  giving  of  evidence  in 
Court  upon  such  a  delicate  subject  will  be  a  very  trying  ordeal. 
He  has  confided  very  little  of  his  trouble  to  me,  but  occasional 
hints  of  his,  and  the  reports  of  another  friend  who  knew  Mrs. 
Wince  personally,  lead  mc  to  suppose  that  she  was  rather  a 
large-minded,  robust  sort  of  woman.  Perhaps  he  bored  her.  I 
can  imagine  that  he  would  bore  anyone  who  had  a  lust  for  ac- 
tion; and  as  they  had  been  married  for  eight  years  and  had  no 
children,  I  am  not  prepared  to  condemn  Mrs.  Wince,  off-hand, 
for  her  desertion  of  him.  I  have  no  doubt  that  Wince  might 
be  able  to  make  out  a  good  ethical  case  for  himself.  I  picture 
his  attitude  towards  his  wife  as  being  extremely  self-denying, 
deprecatory  and  almost  passionately  virtuous.  But  I  prefer  to 
reserve  judgment  on  the  issue  between  them.  I  can  imagine 
that  his  habit  of  procrastinating  may  have  annoyed  her  to  des- 
peration. He  has  told  me  with  a  kind  of  meek  pride  that  he 
has  often  been  to  the  door  of  a  shop,  and  then  postponed  the 
purchase  he  had  come  to  make  until  the  next  day.  He  loathes 
shopping.  He  finds  the  mildest  shopkeeper  an  intimidating 
creature.  I  do  not  know  what  would  happen  to  him  if  his  hair- 
dresser died.  He  has  been  to  the  same  man  for  over  twenty 
years. 

In  politics  he  is  a  conscientious  Radical,  and  his  one  test 
of  politicians  is  "Are  they  sincere?"  He  distrusts  the  Tories 
because  he  believes  that  they  must  be  working  for  their  own 
personal  ends,  but  he  has  had  a  private  weakness  for  Mr.  Bal- 


THE  INTROVERT  47 

four  ever  since  he  read  The  Foundations  of  belief.  His  hero  is 
W.  E.  Gladstone,  whose  opinions  represent  to  him,  I  fancy, 
some  aspect  of  his  ow^n,  while  Gladstone's  courage,  Wince 
says,  was  "perfectly  glorious." 

He  adores  courage,  but  only  when  it  is  the  self-conscious 
kind.  Our  friend  Bellows,  for  instance,  does  not  appear  to 
Wince  as  brave,  but  as  callous,  thick-skinned,  or  "simply  a 
braggart."  All  Wince's  resentment  comes  to  the  surface  when 
the  two  men  meet  by  some  untoward  accident.  On  one  such 
occasion  he  magnificently  left  the  room  and  slammed  the  door 
after  him,  but  I  think  that  he  probably  regretted  that  act  of 
violence  before  he  reached  home.  He  has  a  nervous  horror  of 
making  enemies.  He  need  have  no  fear  in  this  case.  Bellows 
considers  Wince  as  beneath  his  notice,  and  always  speaks  of 
him  to  me  as  "your  hair-splittin'  friend." 

Now  that  I  have  documented  Wince  I  feel  chiefly  sorry 
for  him,  but  when  I  am  in  his  company  I  frequently  have  a 
strong  desire  to  shake  him.  I  wonder  if  his  wife  began  by  being 
sorry  for  him,  and  if  her  escapade  was  incidentally  intended  as 
a  shaking?  Did  she  flaunt  her  wickedness  at  him  in  the  hope 
of  'rousing  him  up'?  If  so,  she  failed,  ignominiously.  Shakings 
of  that  sort  only  aggravate  his  terror  of  life.  Indeed,  I  do  not 
think  that  anything  can  be  done  for  him.  If  he  survives  the 
war,  the  coming  of  the  New  Democracy  will  certainly  finish 
him.  Talking  of  the  possibility  of  a  November  Election,  he 
told  me  that  he  meant  to  abstain  from  voting.  He  said  that  he 
could  not  vote  for  Lloyd  George,  and  was  afraid  of  putting  too 
much  power  into  the  hands  of  the  Labour  Party.  He  did  not 
think  that  they  had  yet  had  enough  experience  of  government 
to  be  trusted  with  the  control  of  a  nation. 

In  the  hallowed  protections  of  the  Victorian  era  he  had 
his  place  and  throve  after  his  fashion.  Life  was  so  secure  and 
the  future  apparently  so  certain.  But  he  was  not  fitted  to  stand 
the  strain  of  coming  out  into  the  open.  He  is  horrified  by  the 
war,  but  in  his  heart  he  is  still  more  horrified  by  the  thought 


48  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

ofthc  conditions  that  will  come  with  peace.  He  sees  the  future, 
I  know,  asa  vast,  formless  threat.  Hcsees  life  exposed  to  a  great 
gale  of  revolution.  He  is  afraid  that  his  retreat  will  be  no  longer 
available,  that  one  day  he  will  find  his  burrow  stopped  and 
himself  called  upon  to  face,  and  to  work  with,  his  fellow-men. 
Hut  no  doubt  his  natural  timidity  tends  to  over-estimate 
the  probability  of  these  dangers. 


THK  l?.\RRir.R 


THE  1K)D"\'  seems  to  have  a  separate  ami  iiulustrious  life 
of  its  own.  It  carries  on  works  of  ama/.ing  intricacy  bc- 
NcMid  the  reach  of  consciousness;  works,  tlie  \cry  existence  of 
wliich  arc  unknown  to  us  so  long  as  they  are  being  successfully 
performed.  Only  when  there  is  some  hitch  or  impediment,  is 
the  consciousness  crudely  signalled  by  the  message  of  pain. 
Attention  is  demanded,  but  no  detail  is  given  of  the  nature  of 
the  trouble,  nor  of  liow  it  may  be  overcome.  All  that  tlie  mes- 
sage con\cys  is  a  plea  for  rest,  for  tlie  suspension  of  those  acti- 
vities within  the  consciousness  whicii  are — may  we  assume? — 
using  up  energy  from  some  additional  source  that  the  workers 
now  wish  to  draw  upon  themsch  es. 

Can  we  assume  further,  that  this  corporate  life  of  the  cells  is 
not  entirely  mechanical;  is  not  a  series  of  ciiemico-biological 
reflexes  or  re-actions,  somehow  mysteriously  initiated  at  the 
birth  of  life  and  continued  by  the  stimulus  of  some  unknown 
unconscious  force  so  long  as  tin's  plastic,  suggestible  association 
of  cells  remains  active?  For  example,  it  would  appear  that  al- 
though strangers  from  another  like  community  will  be  accepted 
and  treated  as  fellow  members,  some  lack  of  sympathy,  or  dif- 
ferent habit  of  work  mars  the  perfection  of  the  building.  In 
renewing  the  bone  structure  after  trephining,  for  instance,  it 
has  been  found  that  a  graft  from  the  patient's  own  body — 
thin  slices  from  the  tibia  are  now  being  used — produces  better 
results  than  can  be  achieved  by  the  workers  with  strange  mat- 
erial. The  graft  in  this  case  is  only  used  as  a  scaffolding.  (Our 
assumed  workers  with  all  their  ingenuity  are  not  equal  to  the 
task  of  tiirowing  out  cantilevers  into  tlie  void.)  But  the  planks 
of  the  scaffolding  become  an  organic  part  of  the  new  structure, 
and  when  the  new  material  used  is  foreign,  we  find  the  marks 
of  divided  purpose  in  plan  and  construction.  The  new  bone 


THE  BARRIER  5  I 

takes  longer  to  form  and  the  work  is  not  so  well  done. 

(Incidentally,  it  is  interesting  to  notice  how  impossible  our 
mechanical  metaphors  become  when  we  are  speaking  of  this 
work  of  the  cells.  I  have  spoken  of  throwing  out  a  cantilever, 
and  incorporating  the  planks  of  a  scaffold  in  the  new  structure, 
but  cantilevers  and  planks  are  themselves,  also,  workers !  And, 
indeed,  the  fact  that  tlie  process  cannot  be  truly  stated  or  even 
conceived  in  mechanical  terms  may  be  taken  as  a  contribution 
to  the  metaphysical  argument.) 

Yet  astounding  and  difficult  as  is  this  problem  of  the  civic, 
corporate  life  that  is  being  lived  without  our  knowledge,  a  still 
more  inconceivable  partnership  awaits  our  investigation.  So 
far,  we  JKive  touched  only  on  two  domains;  the  first  peculiar 
to  those  who  study  the  body  from  a  more  or  less  mechanical 
aspect,  such  as  the  surgeon  or  the  histologist;  the  second  to  the 
psychologist.  There  remains,  I  believe,  a  third  peculiar  to  the 
practical  experiments  of  biology  and  psycholog}'. 

Such  reflections  as  these  have  often  haunted  me,  and  my 
mind  was  confusedly  feeling  for  some  key  to  the  whole  mys- 
tery as  I  stood  by  the  death-bed  of  old  Henry  Sturton.  He  had 
been  fatally  injured  by  a  motor  omnibus  as  he  stood  in  the  gut- 
ter with  his  pitiful  tray  of  useless  twopenny  toys.  No  one  else 
had  been  hurt;  the  accident  would  have  been  no  accident,  no- 
thing more  than  a  violent  and  harmless  skidding  of  the  jugger- 
naut, if  Henry  Sturton  had  not  been  standing  on  that  precise 
spot.  A  difference  of  a  few  inches  either  way  would  have  saved 
him.  As  it  was  the  whole  performance  seemed  to  liave  been 
fastidiously  planned  in  order  to  destroy  him.  And  in  his  pocket 
tiiey  had  found  a  begging  letter  addressed  to  me  that  he  had 
perhaps  forgotten  to  post.  Or  it  may  be  that  for  once  he  had 
honestly  intended  to  stamp  it?  I  had  egotistically  wondered  if 
I  was  the  person  for  whose  benefit  this  casual  killing  had  been 
undertaken. 

When  I  reached  the  hospital,  he  was  either  asleep  or  un- 
conscious, but  they  allowed  me  to  wait  within  the  loop  of  the 
screen  that  was  to  hide  the  spectacle  of  his  passing  from  the 


52  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

Other  p.iticiits  in  the  ward.  And  I  stood  there  pondering  on 
the  marvel  of  the  bodily  functions.  I  got  no  further  than  that 
until  he  opened  his  eyes  and  I  saw  my  vision. 

He  had  been  a  gross  man.  I  had  always  disliked  and  des- 
pised him  since  a  certain  occasion  on  which  I  had  lunched  with 
him  at  his  Club.  That  was  more  than  twenty  years  ago.  I  was 
young  then,  full  of  eagerness  for  the  spiritual  adventure  of  life, 
and  he  was  a  successful  business  man  of  nearly  fifty,  coarse  and 
stupid,  drugged  by  his  perpetual  indulgence  in  physical  satis- 
factions. But,  indeed,  he  had  always  been  stupid.  He  w.as,  I 
have  heard,  the  typical  lout  of  his  school,  too  lethargic  to  be 
vicious,  living  entirely,  as  it  seemed,  for  his  stomach  and  his 
bed.  Heaven  knows  what  his  life  would  have  been,  if  he  had 
always  been  forced  to  work  for  his  bare  living,  but  Providence 
has  a  habit  of  pandering  to  fat  men,  and  he  succeeded  to  his 
father's  business,  and  let  it  run  itself  on  its  own  familiar  lines. 

He  had  never  married.  He  was  too  selfish  for  that,  but  he 
had,  so  someone  told  me,  bought  and  mistreated  more  than 
one  young  woman  for  his  own  office — his  only  positive  sin  in 
the  eyes  of  the  moralists;  though  I  used  to  feci  that  his  whole 
existence  was  one  vast  overwhelming  sin  from  first  to  last. 
That,  however,  is  the  common  error  of  judgment  of  the  ascetic, 
self-immolating  type. 

He  found  no  friends  when  his  business  failed.  His  intimates 
were  men  of  the  same  calibre  as  himself,  and  rejected  him  in 
those  circumstances  as  he  would  have  rejected  them.  The 
failure  itself  was  an  unlucky  accident.  The  man  who  ran  the 
business  proved  unfaithful;  he  was  the  victim  of  a  confidence 
that  begot  in  him  the  lust  for  power.  He  gambled,  lost,  and 
absconded. 

Sturton's  descent  into  the  gutter  was  delayed  for  a  few 
years  by  a  clerical  appointment  he  begged  from  some  firm 
with  whom  he  had  traded  before  his  bankruptcy.  The  ap- 
pointment could  not  have  been  lucrative.  He  attended  the  of- 
fice every  day,  but  nothing  else  seemed  to  have  been  expected 
of  him.  He  could  have  been  capable  of  nothing  else.  Whatever 


THE  BARRIER  53 

his  potentialities  may  once  have  been,  they  were  hopelessly 
stultified  by  then.  I  used  to  meet  him  now  and  again  in  those 
days  of  his  clerkship;  and  let  him  gorge  himself  at  my  expense. 
That  was  his  single  pleasure  and  desire.  Poverty  had  exagger- 
ated the  cravings  of  his  gluttony. 

And  as  I  stood  respectfully  within  the  fold  of  the  screen 
and  looked  down  at  the  flabby  coarseness  of  the  horrible  old 
man  in  the  bed,  I  reflected  that  his  body  must  in  its  own  way 
have  represented  a  highly  successful  community  of  cells.  There 
had  been  no  distractions  of  purpose  in  the  entity  we  knew  as 
Henry  Sturton;  no  rending  uncertainties  to  upset  his  nerves 
and  interfere  with  the  steady  industry  of  his  bodily  functions. 

I  was  thinking  that  when  he  opened  his  eyes  and  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  fierce  and  splendid  thing  his  body  had  always 
hidden  from  us.  I  saw  it  then,  beyond  any  shadow  of  doubt — 
the  spirit  that  had  been  imprisoned  for  seventy  years,  lying  in 
wait  eternally  patient  and  vigilant,  for  this  one  brief  instant  of 
expression.  It  looked  at  me  without  recognition,  yet  with  an 
amazing  intensity,  as  if  it  knevv^  that  all  its  long  agony  of  sup- 
pression would  find  no  other  compensation  than  this.  So  near 
release,  his  soul,  still  longing  to  touch  life  at  some  point,  had 
seized  its  opportunity  when  that  intolerably  gross  barrier  of  his 
body  had  been  mangled  and  dislocated  by  this  long-delayed 
accident. 

Then  Henry  Sturton  coughed,  and  I  saw  the  beautiful 
eager  stare  die  out  of  his  eyes,  and  give  place  to  that  look  of 
gross  desire  I  had  always  loathed.  Even  then,  I  believe,  he 
craved  for  food.  But  the  next  moment  his  eyes  closed  and  his 
lips  spurted  a  stream  of  blood. 

The  nurse  was  with  him  instantly,  pushing  me  aside.  I 
took  advantage  of  her  preoccupation  to  stay  till  the  end.  I 
hoped  for  one  more  sight  of  his  soul.  I  thought  it  might  take 
advantage  of  another  intermission  before  the  work  of  the  com- 
munity was  abruptly  closed.  But  I  did  not  see  it  again. 

He  spoke  once,  two  minutes  before  he  died. 

"God  blast,"  was  what  he  said. 


THE  CONVERT 


FOR  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Heiir)-  Wolvcrton  h.ul  hecii 
seriousl)'  upset. 

His  had  been  ail  orderl)- life.  Even  when  he  was  at  Shrews- 
bury, he  had  escaped  bullying  and  other  disturbances.  He  had 
been  marked  out  as  a  future  scholar  who  would  be  a  credit  to 
the  school;  and  his  calm  air  of  reserve  had  also  protected  him. 
He  might  be  classed  as  a  'sw.it,'  but  he  was  not  the  kind  of 
swat  who  gets  singled  out  for  bull)  ing.  He  was  no  good  at 
games,  but  he  had  a  handsome,  dignified  presence,  and  he  was 
never  known  to  put  on  side. 

At  Oxford  he  passed  from  triumph  to  triumph.  After  he 
got  his  fellowship  at  Balliol,  he  married  a  girl-graduate  from 
Lady  Margaret  Hall,  and  they  worked  happily  together  on  his 
research.  He  was  writing  in  many  volumes,  the  6co>io?uic 
History  of  the  Sixteenth  bf  Seventeenth  Centuries;  and  at  twent)- 
ninc  he  was  already  an  authority.  His  wife  died  rather  inci- 
dently  when  they  had  been  married  three  years,  but  that  had 
not  seriously  interfered  with  his  life  work. 

Nor  did  the  war,  although  it  was  a  terrible  nuisance,  have 
any  considerable  effect  upon  him.  He  undertook  work  of 
"national  importance"  in  Whitehall,  and  when  he  returned 
home  in  tlie  afternoon  to  the  house  he  had  taken  at  tlic  corner 
of  Bedford  Square,  he  found  that  he  could  still  put  in  four  or 
five  \aluable  hours'  work  on  his  history.  And  if  he  wanted 
extra  time  for  research  in  the  British  Museum  library,  he  could 
alwa)s  get  leave.  E\ eryone  in  his  department  recognized  the 
fact  that  he  was  an  exceptional  man,  and  that  the  work  he  was 
engaged  upon  would  be  a  lasting  monument  to  English  scho- 
larship. 

By  comparison,  the  war  itself  was  almost  an  ephemeral 


THE  CONVERT  55 

thing. 

Since  the  signing  of  the  armistice,  he  had  settled  down  to 
make  up  for  lost  time.  He  had  his  whole  future  planned.  He 
hoped  to  finish  his  immediate  task  by  tJie  time  he  was  sixty- 
five,  but  he  foresaw  that  there  would  still  be  other  work  for 
him  to  do.  He  would,  for  example,  almost  certainly  find  it 
necessary  by  then  to  make  revision  in  his  earlier  volumes. 

It  was  no  trifle  that  had  upset  him  on  this  particular  day. 
But  even  the  fact  that  the  English  re\'olution  had  at  last  bro- 
ken into  the  fiame  of  civil  war  would  not  have  disturbed  him 
so  seriously,  if  he  had  not  conclusively  proved  in  the  course 
of  the  past  five  weeks  that  tlie  revolution  was  impossible. 
Throughout  the  welter  of  the  national  strike  disturbances, 
editors  of  any  importance  from  the  editor  of  the  Times  down- 
wards had  begged  him  for  articles.  Although  he  had  specialized 
upon  a  study  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  he  was 
regarded  as  the  first  authority  on  the  entire  history  of  the  Eng- 
lish people.  And  in  his  articles,  he  had  proved  conclusively 
from  liis  vast  knowledge  of  precedents  and  tradition,  that  the 
temper  of  the  English  people  would  never  seek  the  arbitrament 
of  an  armed  revolution. 

He  was  still  convinced  of  that,  although,  so  far  as  he  could 
judge,  the  revolution  had  already  begun. 

He  had  been  startled  in  the  middle  of  his  best  hours  of  the 
day,  by  what  lie  had  at  first  imagined  to  be  the  back-firing  of 
a  rapidly  driven  motor-bicycle.  He  went  to  the  window, 
opened  it  wide  (he  always  kept  it  closed  when  he  was  working, 
to  shut  out  the  noise  of  the  traffic),  and  listened  with  an  anxious 
attention.  He  had  a  peculiar  and  unprecedented  feeling  of 
nervousness.  He  felt,  for  no  assignable  reason,  as  if  someone 
had  discovered  a  bad  anachronism  in  his  book.  And  then  he 
was  reluctantly  driven  to  the  conclusion  that,  indeed,  some 
mistake  had  been  committed,  although  he  could  not  admit  that 
it  was  his  own.  For  the  motor-bicycle  continued  to  back-fire 
in  short,  spasmodic  bursts,  while  it  remained  stationary;  and 


56  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

he  could  no  longer  avoid  the  inference  tli.it  it  was  as  a  matter 
of  fact  a  machine  gun,  no  further  awa\-  than  Oxford  Street. 
He  could,  also,  hear  dim  and  terrible  shouting,  and  more  faint- 
ly, occasional  cries  of  dismay,  of  anger,  or  of  fear. 

The  Square  was  completely  deserted,  but  when  he  saw  a 
scattered  rout  of  people  flying  north,  up  Hloomsbury  Street,  he 
closed  the  window  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  his  well- 
fitted  writing  room,  sanctified  now,  by  the  five  years'  work  he 
had  done  there. 

\Vhat  so  annojed  and  disturbed  him  was  that  some  offi- 
cious, politiail  fool  should  have  upset  his  scholarly  deductions 
from  the  vast  precedents  of  history.  He  would  not  admit  for 
one  moment  that  he  had  been  mistaken;  his  chain  of  rc.isoning 
was  unassailable.  But,  so  he  inferred,  some  blundering,  mal- 
icious idiot  had  made  a  gross  error  in  the  conduct  of  the  nego- 
tiations that,  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday,  had  promised  so 
hopefull}'.  The  result  of  that  error  was  incalculable.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  that  the  rioters  had  been  fired  upon,  and  so 
given  a  sound  cause,  and  what  would  perhaps  be  more  eflfective 
still,  a  rallying  cry,  to  the  great  mass  of  unemployed  workers. 
And  the  army  could  not  be  depended  upon.  The  more  loyal 
part  of  it  was  in  Germany  enforcing  the  peace  terms.  It  was 
just  possible  in  the  circumstances  that  there  might  be  something 
very  like  an  armed  revolution,  despite  the  fact  that  his  argu- 
ments had  been  so  indubitably  sound  and  right.  Henry  Wol- 
verton  was  exceedingly  annoyed  and  upset. 

His  troubles  did  not  end  there.  Just  as  he  had  succeeded,  by 
a  masterly  effort  of  concentration,  in  putting  away  the  thought 
of  this  stupid  anomaly  and  returning  to  his  work,  his  house- 
keeper came  and  tapped  at  his  door — a  thing  she  had  been 
explicitly  forbidden  to  do,  at  that  time  of  day,  in  any  circum- 
stances whate\'er. 

He  ignored  the  first  knock,  and  then  she  knocked  again, 
more  loudly. 

He  frowned,  and  br.dc  her  come  in.  She  was  stupid,  like 


THE  CONVEkT  57 

most  women,  and  would  probably  continue  to  pester  him  until 
she  was  admitted. 

She  came  in  trembling  with  agitation. 

"Oh !  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  coming  now,  against 
all  orders,"  she  said;  "but  William  has  just  come  in — it's  his 
evening  off,  you  know,  sir — and  he  says  there's  been  firin'  in 
Oxford  Circus,  and  people  killed,  and — " 

"I  inferred  that,"  Henry  Wolverton  interrupted  her  calm- 
ly. "I  heard  the  machine  guns.  You  had  better  tell  William 
not  to  go  out  again." 

"Oh!  sir,  but  he  says  we're  none  of  us  safe,"  the  house- 
keeper wailed,  on  the  verge  of  hysterics.  "He  says  there'll  be 
looting  and  Heaven  only  knows  what,  and  us  so  near  Oxford 
Street." 

"I  do  not  anticipate  any  effects  of  that  kind,  to-night,  Mrs. 
Perry,"  Wolverton  replied  frigidly.  "And,  by  the  way,  I 
should  be  glad  if  you  could  let  me  have  dinner  half  an  hour 
earlier,  this  evening.  After  these  annoying  disturbances,  I  may 
not  be  able  to  settle  down  again  until  I  have  dined,  and  I  shall 
work  longer  afterwards  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  Can  you 
arrange  that?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  gasped  Mrs.  Perry.  "Then,  you  don't  believe, 
sir—" 

"I  do  not,"  Wolverton  returned  with  the  dignity  of  the 
assured.  "You  may  lock  the  outer  doors,  if  it  gives  you  any 
sense  of  security.  I  shall  expect  dinner  in  half  an  hour  from 
now." 

Mrs.  Perry  returned  to  the  kitchen  greatly  comforted  by 
her  master's  magnificent  confidence.  She  told  William  that 
things  were  not  so  bad  as  he  was  afraid  of!  And  William  in 
his  turn  derived  a  sense  of  security  from  the  knowledge  that 
he  was  living  in  the  house  of  Henry  Wolverton. 

Nevertheless,  they  locked  and  bolted  all  the  doors  with  a 
fine  attention  to  detail. 

Henry  Wolverton  worked  rather  intermittently  after  din- 


SS  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

iicr  tli.u  night.  lie  w.is  not  vli^tiubfil  b)  an\'  noises  frotii 
without.  Loi\ilon  was  ciuictct  tlian  ho  hail  c\cr  known  it.  He 
could  hear  no  sound  of  traflic  cither  along  lilo()nisbur\'  Street 
or  Tottenham  Court  Road.  No  paper  boys  came.  No  one 
passed  his  window.  He  could  not  even  hear  the  sound  of  the 
policeman  on  his  beat.  IJut  he  found  the  absence  of  noise  on 
this  occasion  more  d'sturbini:  than  the  presence  o(  it  would 
have  been.  He  found  himself  hailed  out  of  his  profoundcst 
efforts  of  attention  by  his  conciousness  of  this  abiding,  deathly 
silence.  He  would  discover  himself,  sitting  idly,  li>tening  to 
the  stillness  of  the  night. 

A  little  after  twelve  o'clock,  he  got  up  and  went  to  the 
front  door.  And  after  he  had  somewhat  impatiently  unlocked 
it,  drawn  back  the  bottom  bolt  and  the  top  bolt,  released  the 
night  latcli,  and  undone  tlie  chain,  he  opened  the  door  and 
stood  on  the  top  step,  looking  out  o\er  the  darkness  of  the 
Square.  After  a  moment  or  two,  he  realized  with  a  little  shock 
of  dismay  why  the  Square  looked  unfamiliar  to  him.  The 
street  lamps  had  not  been  lighted.  Only  a  clear  and  brilliant 
moon  in  its  second  quarter,  brooded  o\  cr  the  unprecedented 
silence;  weakly  illuminating  the  apparently  deserted  city.  .  .  . 

The  thin  scream  of  fear  that  suddenly  pierced  the  stillness, 
came  with  an  effect  of  audacious  irreverence. 

Henry  Wolverton  stiffened  and  a  cold  thrill  of  apprehen- 
sion ran  down  his  spine. 

Tlie  scream  was  succeeded  b)'  a  faint,  eager  patter  of 
hurrying  feet;  and  then  more  distantly,  by  the  brutal  intrusion 
of  hoarse  shouts,  and  the  clutter  of  heavy  boots  vehemently 
running. 

Wolverton  did  not  mo\  e.  Until  now  fear  had  never  en- 
tered his  life  and  he  had  the  courage  of  a  man  who  has  never 
faced  a  real  danger. 

The  lighter  footsteps  were  approaching  very  rapidly,  com- 
ing up  Blooinsbury  Street;  and  the  sound  of  them  seemed 
suddenly  to  lift  and  acquire  precision  as  a  figure  came  round 


tnfe  CONVERT  5^ 

the  corner  and  turned  swiftly  into  the  Square.  Wolverton 
could  see  then  that  the  runner  was  a  young  woman  in  a  light 
dress. 

He  would  ha\'e  let  her  pass  without  trying  to  attract  her 
attention.  He  was  watching  the  whole  incident  with  the 
detached  and  careful  interest  of  the  historian.  But  the  young 
woman,  herself,  had  evidently  seen  the  beacon  of  his  open  door 
before  she  actually  reached  it,  and  had  settled  upon  her  course 
of  action.  She  came  straight  up  the  steps  without  an  instant's 
hesitation,  pushed  Henry  Wolverton  back  into  the  hall,  and 
closed  the  door  with  the  intent  and  silent  urgency  of  a  conspir- 
ator. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  speak,  and  the  )oung  woman 
crouched  in  silence  behind  the  door,  until  they  had  heard  the 
clutter  of  heavy  footsteps  pass  by  and  hurry  on,  up  the  Square. 
The  men  were  not  shouting  now,  but  even  through  the  heavy 
door,  Woherton  could  hear  them  gasping  and  panting  as  tliey 
ran.  The  sound  of  it  made  him  think  of  the  hoarse  panting  of 
great  dogs. 

When  the  flurry  of  that  passing  had  dwindled  again  into 
silence,  the  young  woman  got  up,  locked  and  bolted  the  door 
and  faced  Henry  Woh  erton  under  the  light  of  the  hall  lamp. 

"So,  that's  all  riglit,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh  of  exul- 
tation. 

"Do  I  understand — r"  Woherton  began. 

"Probabl)^,  I  should  imagine,"  she  interrupted  him.  "The 
scum's  let  loose — the  hooligans;  tlie  Apaches.  After  tlie  figlit- 
ing  comes  pillage  and  rapine."  She  frowned  slightly  as  she 
added,  "I  suppose  rapine  has  got  to  do  with  rape:" 

"It  is  not  used  specifically  in  that  sense,  now,"  Woh  erton 
replied.   "But  it  had  that  meaning,  earlier." 

"Oh,  thanks!  Well  that  was  what  I  meant,"  the  young 
woman  said.  "Do  you  mind  if  I  come  in  and  sit  down?  Is 
that  your  room?  I'm  a  bit  blown." 

Wolverton  stood  aside  for  her  to  enter  the  sacred  places 


60  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

of  his  writing-room. 

She  nodded  by  way  of  tlianks,  as  she  passed  him,  went  in, 
looked  round  the  room  and  then  having  thrown  herself  with 
a  sigh  of  relief  into  his  reading  chair,  proceeded  to  take  off  her 
hnt. 

"Jolly  room,"  she  remarked  pleasantly,  as  her  deft  fingers 
twitched  and  patted  at  her  hair.  "You  a  writer?" 

"My  name  is  Henry  Wolvcrton,"  he  informed  her  with 
a  modest  dignity. 

"Whatr"  she  exclaimed,  sitting  bolt  upright  and  staring 
at  him  eagerly.   "Henry  Wolvcrton,  the  iiistorianr" 

He  nodded  gravely. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  she  said,  and  went  on,  "Well,  I  was  wrong 
about  one  thing.  I  said  you  must  be  a  dried  up  little  mummy 
of  a  man,  all  beard  and  spectacles.  And  you're  not  a  bit  like 
that.   In  fact  you're  quite  unusually  goodlooking." 

The  f;iintest  adumbration  of  a  flush  tinged  Wolvcrton's 
white  forehead.  "My  name  appears  to  be  known  to  you,"  he 
remarked,  ignoring  the  compliment. 

"Obviously,"  his  visitor  retorted.  "Pretty  well  known  to 
everyone,  I  should  imagine,  just  now." 

"May  I  ask  whyr"  he  put  in. 

"Well,  considering  that  you're  the  man  who's  responsible 
for  the  revolution,  I  suppose  you're  more  famous  at  the  present 
moment  than  any  man  in  Great  Britain,"  she  said.  "Though 
you're  not  exactly  popular  with  either  side,  to-night,  I  should 
think,"  she  added  thoughtfully. 

Henry  Wolvcrton  made  a  little  noise  in  his  tliroat  that 
sounded  like  an  asthmatic  cough.  With  him  that  noise  did 
duty  for  a  laugh.  "I'm  afraid  I  don't  follow  you,"  he  said. 

"Doyou  mean  that  you  don't  admit  )'our  own  responsibility 
for  the  revolution?"  she  asked. 

"I  cannot  see  that  I  am  even  remotely  connected  with  it," 
he  replied. 

The  young  woman  pursed  her  lovely  mouth,  and  clasped 


THE  CONVERT  6 1 

her  hands  round  her  knee.  After  a  reflective  pause  she  remarked 
v/ith  apparent  inconsequence,  "My  name  is  Susan  Jeffery  j  but 
I  don't  suppose  that  conveys  anything  to  yoiu" 

"I  believe  I  saw  the  name  on  a  committee  list  of  the  'League 
of  Youth,'  "  Wolverton  said. 

"Lord,  what  a  memory  he  has,"  commented  Susan  Jeffery 
in  a  soft  voice. 

"But  I  must  plead  ignorance  of  the  general  scope  of  your 
activities,"  he  continued. 

"But  you  know  something  about  our  leaguer"  she  put  in. 

"Something,"  he  admitted. 

"Such  as  our  policy  of  percolation?" 

"I  understand  that  your  endeavour  is  to  be  represented  in 
every  imaginable  grade  of  society." 

"Precisely.  From  royalty  down  to  the  criminal  and  the 
gutter-snipe,"  Susan  confirmed.  "We  have  only  one  qualifi- 
cation for  membership;  we  admit  no  one  over  twenty-five." 

"And  have  you  many  members,  now?"  Wolverton  inquir- 
ed politely. 

"Nine  thousand,  eight  hundred  and  forty-three,"  Susan 
replied.  "We  admitted  a  hundred  and  seven  new  members 
after  our  grand  meeting  tonight,  including  a  royal  prince  and 
two  hooligans." 

Henry  Wolverton  nodded  his  head  encouragingly. 

"Most  satisfactory,"  he  murmured. 

Susan  dropped  her  knee  and  sat  up. 

"I'm  telling  you  this,"  she  said  in  a  firm  voice,  "for  your 
own  good.  We  discussed  you  at  our  meeting,  and  it  was  re- 
solved unanimously  that  you  were  largely  responsible  for  the 
revolution  that  broke  out  to-day,  and  will  end  God  knows 
where  or  when." 

Wolverton  made  his  noise  again — Susan  had  not  yet  re- 
cognized it  as  a  laugh.  "I  must  confess  that  I  don't  quite 
follow  your  train  of  reasoning,"  he  said. 

"You  don't  look  like  a  fool,  cither,"  Susan  commented, 


62  Sir.NS  AND  WONDER!^ 

frankly.  *'I  suppose  that's  just  your  one  hlind  spot.  Most  of  us 
have  OIK." 

"Perhaps  you  wouUl  explain,"  VVolverton  suggested, 

*'It'sso  bally  ob\  ious,"  Sus;ui  replied.  "You've  been  writ- 
ing articles  for  the  last  six  weeks — they'\e  appeared  all  over 
the  shop — rubbing  it  in  about  the  English  temper.  It  wouldn't 
liavc  mattered  if  it  had  been  anybody  else,  Init  people  believe 
\ou.  All  sorts  of  people.  We  know  that,  through  the  activities 
of  the  league,  because  we're  represented  everywhere.  Well, 
what  has  been  the  eft'ect  of  those  articles?  One  side,  the  side 
in  power,  has  believed  you  and  decided  on  your  authority  not 
to  give  way.  The  other  side,  the  workers,  has  believed  you, 
too,  and  they're  so  annoyed  to  think  that  you  arc  right  that 
they've  determined  to  prove  you're  wrong." 

"But,  in  that  case,  I  was  right,"  Wolverton  put  in  with 
his  first  sign  of  excitement. 

"You  were,  until  you  put  )Our  opinion  on  record,"  Susan 
corrected  iu'm.  "You  see,"  she  explained,  "it's  like  knowing 
the  future.  You  can  only  know  it  for  certain  about  other 
people  as  long  as  you  keep  it  to  yourself.  If  )'ou  tell  a  man  that 
next  Friday  he'll  walk  under  a  ladder  in  Fleet  Street,  and  that 
a  brick  will  drop  on  his  head  and  kill  him,  he'll  keep  out  of 
Fleet  Street  next  Friday,  if  he  believes  )ou." 

"I  admit  the  instance,"  Wol\  erton  murmured. 

"Well,  it's  just  the  same  in  your  case.  The  workers  have 
been  saying,  'Here's  tliat  chap  Wolverton  convincing  every- 
body that  there'll  be  no  revolution,  that  we'll  have  to  give  in, 
in  the  end,  and  make  terms.  And  all  the  politicians,  and  the 
owners  and  the  middle  classes  believe  him,  and  they'll  stick  it 
out  to  the  last  minute,  because  they're  sure  wc  have  got  the 
"English  temper"  and  won't  fight.  Well,  we'll  jolly  well 
prove  that  Mr.  Wolverton  is  wrong  for  once.'  You  see,"  Su- 
san concluded  with  a  graceful  gesture.  "Our  league  knows 
these  things.  And  it  comes  to  this:  if  you  want  your  prophecies 
to  como  off,  you  must  keep  them  to  yourself  until  after  the 


THE  CONVERT  63 

event.   Hasn't  your  study  of  history  taught  you  that  much?" 

Henry  Wolverton  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

"I'm  sorry  if  I've  upset  you,"  Susan  said  gently.  "I'm  sure 
you're  a  very  nice  man,  really." 

Wolverton  groaned.  "I'm  finally  discredited,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

"Oh,  no!"  Susan  comforted  him.  "Not  in  your  own  line. 
Remember  the  motto  of  our  League:  'These  things  are  hidden 
from  the  wise  and  prudent  and  revealed  unto  babes.'  No  man, 
however  clever  he  is,  can  be  expected  to  know  everything." 

Henry  Wolverton  lifted  his  head. 

"I  shall  never  write  again,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
makes  the  great  renunciation;  and  he  looked  at  Susan  a  trifle 
nervously,  as  if  he  feared  this  immense  announcement  might 
be  a  little  too  much  for  her. 

"Just  as  well,"  she  replied  soothingly.  "In  any  case  we've 
pretty  well  scrapped  history  now.  It  was  never  any  practical 
use  except  as  a  reference  for  precedents;  and  now  we're  chuck- 
ing precedents  down  the  sink  as  fast  as  we  can.  We're  all  going 
to  begin  again  presently — when  the  fighting  is  over — on  a 
new  basis." 

Henry  Wolverton  jumped  to  his  feet  and  began  to  pace 
up  and  down  the  room. 

"It's  sure  to  be  a  wrench  at  first,  of  course,"  Susan  consoled 

him.  "These  things  always  are.   But  if  I  can  help  you  in  any 

>» 
way — 

He  turned  on  her  with  the  first  sign  of  emotional  passion 
he  had  ever  displayed. 

"You!"  he  said  fiercely.  "Don't  you  realize  that  you've 
destroyed  my  whole  life's  work;  that  you've  robbed  me  in 
ten  minutes  of  e\ery  happiness  and  satisfaction  I've  ever  had. 
Good  God,  if  I'd  known,  I'd  have  slammed  the  door  in  your 
face,  just  now.  I  would  have  delivered  you  over  to  the  scum 
of  London  to  do  what  they  would  with  you." 


64  Sir.NS  AND  WONDERS 

Susan  blushed.  "I  don't  think  that's  a  very  nice  thinsx  to 
say,"  she  remarked,  gently.  "JJut  perhaps  it's  just  as  well  for 
you  to  blow  oft*  steam  a  bit.  It  does  help  when  you've  had  a 
real  facer.  And  honestly,  you  know,  although  I'm  very  sorry 
in  a  wa)',I  do  think  it's  all  for  your  good  th;it  I  came  in  tonight; 
because  you  would  have  been  bound  to  fuid  it  out  for  yourself 
sooner  or  later." 

Henry  VVolvcrton  stared  at  her,  and  his  look  of  anger 
slowly  gave  place  to  one  of  bewilderment. 

"But  what  am  I  to  doV  he  asked.  "I've  always  worked 
for  ten  hours  a  day.  I  can't  live  without  work  of  some  kind, 
and  now.  ..." 

Sus.in  got  up  and  came  across  the  room  to  him,  with  an 
expression  of  bright  and  eager  helpfulness. 

"Oh!  look  here,  we'll  find  a  use  for  you,"  she  said,  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm.  "You're  too  old  to  join  the  league,  of 
course — " 

"I'm  thirty-seven,"  he  interpolated. 

"It's  quite  young,  really,"  she  comforted  him.  "I'm  twen- 
ty-three. But  what  I  was  going  to  say  was  that  we  arc  founding 
a  reference  committee  of  experts  of  all  kinds  to  advise  the 
league.  The  members  of  that  committee  will  have  no  voice 
in  our  decisions,  you  understand;  they'll  be  simply  advisory. 
And  it  would  be  absolutely  splendid  to  have  you  as  chairman. 
I  shall  get  no  end  of  prestige  from  the  league  for  having  found 
you."  Her  face  shone  with  the  joy  of  the  successful  discoverer. 

"I  understand  you  to  suggest,"  Henry  Wohcrton  com- 
mented dryly,  "that  I  should  devote  the  rest  of  my  life,  and 
the — er — fruits  of  my  scholarship,  to  instructing  young  men 
and  women  under  twenty-fi\e  years  of  age  in  the  lessons  of 
history;  always  with  the  distinct  understanding  that  they  are 
in  no  way  pledged  to  apply  my  advice  in  the  prosecution  of 
their  own  policy  r" 

Susan  did  not  miss  the  implications  of  his  tone.  "My  dear 
man,"  she  said,  "whatever  is  the  good  of  scholarship,  if  it  isn't 


THE  CONVERT  6$ 

to  advise  the  young?  Surely  you  haven't  been  studying  history 
all  these  years  just  in  order  to  swap  opinions  with  all  the  other 
old  fogies?" 

Henry  Woh'erton  turned  his  back  on  herand  walked  over 
to  the  window.  After  a  short  pause  he  faced  lier  again  and 
said,  "You  have  a  remarkable  power  of  statement,  Miss  JefFery. 
I  must  admit  that  I  ha\e  ne\er  before  considered  the  precise 
use,  in  the  pragmatical  sense,  to  which  I  might  apply  my — er 
— scholarship;  and  I  am  ready  to  grant  that  your  point  is  a 
good  one.  Where  your  otherwise  admirable  logic  seems  to 
fail,  however,  is  in  the  admission  that  though  I  might  turn  my 
knowledge  to  good  effect  by  ad\ising  youth,  I  may  be  wasting 
all  my  effort  since  j'outh  will  probably  not  be  guided  by  my 
teaching." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  logic,"  replied  Susan,  "but  I 
should  have  thought  it  must  be  pretty  evident  to  you,  to-day 
of  all  days,  that  if  we  were  going  to  be  guided  only  by  the 
lessons  of  history,  our  league  would  be  a  back-number  in  a 
v/eek.  Isn't  it  possible  for  you  to  get  it  into  your  head  that 
history  isn't  everything?" 

She  put  her  last  question  with  the  appealing  gesture  of  a 
mother  addressing  a  refractory  and  rather  stupid  child. 

"How  is  history  going  to  get  us  out  of  the  mess  you've 
landed  us  in,  for  example?"  she  continued,  as  Henry  Wolver- 
ton  made  no  attempt  to  answer  her.  "How  is  history,  alone, 
going  to  help  us  presently  to  start  everything  afresh  on  a  new 
basis?  You  must  know,  yourself,  that  it's  no  good  trying  to 
get  back  to  the  old  way  of  doing  things.  That  could  only 
mean,  by  your  own  showing,  that  we  should  just  be  preparing 
the  way  for  all  this  to  happen  again." 

Henry  Wolverton  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
despair. 

"But  if  I  admit  that  you're  right,"  he  said,  "I  have  to  face 
the  conclusion  that  I've  wasted  my  whole  life." 

"Well,  in  a  way,  I'm  afraid  you  ha\'e,  rather,"  Susan  ad- 

E 


66  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

mittcil.  "It's  a  ijrcat  phVy  loi  instance,  abovit  this  rtnolution 
of )  ours.  It  means  such  a  lot  of  ModiI  and  disoiilcr;  and  people 
do  get  so  out  of  haiul  when  there's  fi^htini:  j^oing  on.  Now  if 
the  owners  and  the  niiiidic-classcs  hadn't  been  so  cocksure,  and 
had  gi\  en  wav,  we  could  have  starteil  in  on  our  new  methods 
of  government  witlunit  any  bother," 

She  paused  a  moment,  before  she  ailded, 

"We've  got  it  all  worked  out,  )0u  know,  but,  of  course,  I 
can't  tell  )0u  anything  about  it,  )'et." 

"I  am,  in  fact,  what  )'ou  would  call  a  back-number,"  Hen- 
ry Wol\  erton  said. 

Susan  puckered  her  forehead.  "I  tiiink  there's  still  a  liope 
for  you,"  she  remarked. 

"After  all  these  years?"  he  asked. 

"If  you'd  let  me  take  )'ou  in  hand  for  a  bit,"  she  said.  "You 
seem  willing  to  learn." 

"But  you  have  surely  more  important  work  to  dor  You 
couldn't  spare  time  to  teach  me?"  he  suggested. 

"I  think  I  might  work  it  in,"  she  said  reflectively.  "I'd 
take  )0u  about  with  me  and  show  you  things — real  things, 
you  know.  What's  chiefly  wrong  with  )ou  is  that  you've 
spent  all  your  time  over  your  old  books." 

"You  suggest  that  I  ought  to  study  life  in — in  action?" 
Henry  Wolvcrton  inquired. 

"Rather,"  Susan  agreed.  "You  ought  to  come  to  one  of 
our  meetings." 

She  stopped  abruptly,  and  her  hand  went  up  to  her  mouth 
with  a  gesture  of  dismay. 

"Oh!  Great  Scott!"  she  ejaculated;  "that  reminds  me,  I 
was  going  on  to  another  frightfully  important  meeting  when 
those  hooligans  started  chasing  me;  and  that  and  our  talk  put 
it  right  out  of  my  head." 

"At  what  time  was  tliis  important  meeting  to  be  held?" 
Henry  Wohcrton  asked,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"One  o'clock,"  she  told  him. 


THE  COXVERT  67 

^*You  Still  have  ten  minutes,"  he  said. 

Susan  shuddered.  "I  daren't  go  out  again  alone,"  she  con- 
fessed, "I  simply  daren't.  I'd — I'd  sooner  stay  here  all  night 
with  you." 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  come  with  you,"  Henry  Wolver- 
ton  said. 

"You!"  Susan  exclaimed.  "But  don't  you  understand  the 
risk?  The  mob's  loose.  What  good  would  you  be  against  three 
or  four  chunky  hooligans r" 

Henry  Wohertoii  squared  his  shoulders.  He  was  a  tall, 
finely-built  man,  and  his  face  had  the  cool  assurance  of  one 
who  has  never  known  fear. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  hooligans,"  he  said. 

Susan  gazed  at  him  with  frank  admiration. 

"You  know  you're  a  perfect  topper  in  some  ways,"  she 
complimejitcd  him. 

He  bowed  gravely.  "If  I  might  be  admitted  to  this  meet- 
ing of  yours,"  he  said;  "it  would  perhaps  afford  me  an  oppor- 
tunity to  begin  my  education." 

^^If  )^ou're  sure  you're  not  afraid,"  Susan  replied,  picking 
up  her  hat. 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  afraid,"  he  said.  "Will  you  take  my 
arm?" 

At  the  open  door  they  paused  a  moment,  looking  out  into 
the  darkness;  listening  to  the  profound  silence  of  the  empty 
night — creative  youth  and  patient  scholarship,  hand-in-hand, 
facing  the  immense  void  of  the  unforctcllablc  future. 


A  NEGLIGIBLE  EXPERIMENT 


"  T  CAN'T  get  him  right,  somehow,"  the  )oung  sculptor 
X'^-iiil,  hut  he  lo<ikcil  tenderly  at  tlic  little  figure  of  the  man 
he  was  modelling  in  plasticine,  as  if,  despite  its  very  obvious 
defects,  he  found  something  to  admire  in  his  creation. 

"Wants  stiffcm'ng,  doesn't  he?"  I  suggested.  "Couldn't 
you  put  a  wire  or  something  up  his  legs  and  back  r" 

"W'ell,  \  ou  sec,"  m\  \  oung  friend  explained,  "I  could  if  I 
knew  bcforeiiand  exactly  what  I  was  going  to  do  with  him. 
Only  I  don't.  I  like  to  make  him  up  as  I  go  along.  I'm  no 
good  at  it  really.  I  can't  think  it  all  out  ahead  and  then  sit 
down  and  do  it  right  off.  I  ha\  e  to  experiment  and — sec  how 
it  comes,  )ou  know.    Do }ou  think  his  head  is  too  big  r" 

I  thought  it  was  rather  big. 

The  vounj;  modeller  rcirardcd  his  creation  with  a  look  in 
which  fondness  still  seemed  to  preponderate. 

"Perhaps  if.  ..."  he  said;  then  speech  died  out  of  him  as 
his  hands  again  began  to  fashion  and  improve  his  little  image  of 
humanity. 

And  as  I  watched  him  a  vision  came  to  me.  I  lost  con- 
sciousness of  the  boy  and  his  workshop.  I  wandered  away  into 
a  dreamland  of  the  imagination,  following  tlie  lure  of  a  fantasy 
deeper  and  more  satisfying  than  the  reality  of  life. 

*  *  * 

When  I  read  in  my  morning's  paper  of  the  "No\a"  in  the 
constellation  of  Sagittarius,  I  thought  first  of  H.  G.  Wells's 
story  of  'The  New  Star,'  and  smiled.  Later,  I  turned  with  a 
little  shiver  of  anxiety  to  that  chapter  in  Professor  Lowell's 
EyolutioH  of  JVorUh  in  which  he  describes  the  possible  coming 
of  a  'dark  stranger'  out  of  the  depths  of  space.    Already  there 


A  NEGLIGIBLE  EXPERIMENT  69 

were  points  of  striking  resemblance  between  Lowell's  imag- 
inative account  and  the  details  that  were  appearing  casually,  in 
the  intervals  between  more  important  news,  in  the  news- 
papers. This  new  star  differed  from  those  other  uov^s  so  many 
of  which  have  been  recorded  at  various  times.  The)i  brought 
us  tidings  of  a  collision  that  had  already  occurred,  blazing  out 
suddenly  into  a  short-lived  splendour  and  quickly  waning 
again  to  invisibility.  This  stranger,  astronomers  were  agreed, 
shone  not  by  its  own  light  but  by  the  reflected  light  of  the 
sun.  Then  it  must  be,  relatively,  near.  Lowell's  calculations 
gave  us  something  like  thirty  years  to  prepare  before  the  in- 
vader wrought  the  destruction  of  the  solar  system.  But, 
obviously,  that  calculation  depended  on  various  assumptions 
that  the  reality  need  not  verify.  This  strange  visitor  might  be 
much  smaller  than  he  had  assumed  —  he  had  taken  the  enor- 
mous mass  of  the  sun  as  his  standard —  its  albedo  might  be 
lower;  its  speed  greater.  Also  Lowell's  stranger  was  assumed 
to  be  coming  at  right  angles  to  the  plane  of  the  ecliptic;  this 
one  would,  as  it  were,  skim  the  edge  of  that  swimming  saucer. 
Would  any  of  the  outer  planets  be  interposed  between  us  and 
this  dreadful  visitor  ?  Neptune,  Uranus,  Saturn,  Jupiter, 
Mars,  might  any  of  them  be  a  buffer  to  us — provide  us,  per- 
haps, with  some  stupendous  display  in  the  heavens,  but  save 
us  from  ultimate  disaster  .? 

Everyone  treated  the  thing  so  lightly.  Here  and  there 
alarmist  paragraphs  appeared,  but  they  only  displayed  the  hand 
of  the  sensation-monger.  No  one  took  the  threat  seriously. 
And  yet  the  astronomers  must  know  .?  They  had  had  more 
than  a  week,  now,  In  which  to  make  their  calculations. 

And  then  tlie  shadow  fell  with  such  suddenness  that  it 
was  impossible  to  say  how  the  certainty  had  come  to  us. 
Everyone  knew.  The  astronomers  confirmed  one  another 
without  a  dissentient.  And  there  was  nothing  in  the  way. 
With  a  horrible  unanimity  the  outer  planets  had  left  a  clear 
space  for  the  intruder,  while  the  Earth,  with  that  blundering 


70  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

iiuliffcrcncc  wliich  is  surely  its  thief  ch:u;ictcrisiic,  was  stoliil- 
ly  marching  straight  into  the  path  of  destruction.  Is  there  any 
esoteric  significance  in  the  fact  that  the  Earth  lias  a  greater 
density  than  any  other  nuinlier  of  tlic  solar  system? 

Everyone  knew,  hut  httle  was  changed.  We  went  on 
with  our  aflairs;  with  httle  /.est,  no  douht  —  wc  could  never 
forget  tlic  deepening  sliadow.  IJut  wiiat  else  was  there  for  us 
to  do  but  go  on  ?  Wc  could  not  instantly  alter  ourselves  or 
our  way  of  life.  Religions  bla/x'd  into  a  spasmodic  fever  as 
men  and  women  sought  refuge  from  the  dreadful  reality. 
Crimes  of  lust  and  greed  increased  for  the  same  reason.  But 
for  the  most  part  wc  continued  in  the  old  wa)-s  by  sheer  inertia, 
though  there  was  a  new  and  smaller  moon  visible  to  us  in  the 
night  sky,  a  moon  that  waxed  with  infinite  slowness  towards 
the  full,  and  grew  larger  night  by  night.  We  knew  by  then 
that  the  stranger  was  as  big  as  Jupiter,  and  with  a  density  little 
less  than  that  of  the  Earth. 

The  first  portents  of  disaster  came  when  our  own  moon 
was  approaching  the  new.  The  stranger's  mass  had  begun  to 
affect  the  tides,  and  we  were  warned  to  evacuate  all  low  lands, 
near  the  sea,  upon  the  estuaries,  and  incidentally  the  river  level 
in  London.  Four  days  before  the  highest  tide  the  Thames 
flooded  Farringdon  Street,  Westminster,  and  great  districts  on 
the  south  bank,  and  the  retreating  river  laid  bare  the  river-bed 
as  far  down  as  Greenwich. 

The  population  of  London  had  fled  to  the  heights  North 
and  South  before  the  great  floods  that  devastated  all  the  low 
lands  of  Essex,  Kent,  Surre)',  and  Middlesex,  And  with  that 
rush  for  safety  and  the  rapidly  increasing  portents  of  disaster 
the  routine  of  civilisation  was  definitely  broken.  It  seemed  as 
if  in  the  mass  we  were  being  gradually  stripped  of  all  our 
tediously -acquired  virtues  and  vices,  until  but  one  instinct 
remained,  the  instinct  for  self-preservation.  That,  however, 
was  only  the  efTcct  produced  by  the  panic  movement  of  the 
crowdj  when  one  came  to  individuals.  .  .  . 


A  NEGLIGIBLE  EXPERIMENT  7 1 

I  can,  however,  only  speak  of  two,  myself  and  another 
man.  We  sat  together  on  a  hill  in  Derbysliire  and  watched 
through  the  last  night. 

A  certain  calmness  had  come  to  me,  then,  mingled  with 
the  queerest  feelings  of  excitement  and  expectation.  Within 
sight  of  death,  I  could  still  enjoy  this  amazing  celestial  adven- 
ture. The  new  planet  that  was  rushing  in  upon  us  had  already 
torn  us  from  our  steady  path  about  the  sun,  and  our  old  fam- 
iliar moon  dwindled  to  the  size  of  a  sixpence,  and,  diminishing 
almost  visibly,  was  within  a  few  hours  of  destruction.  For  the 
moon  had  fled  its  old  allegiance  to  the  Earth  and  was  rushing 
to  the  arms  of  this  great  stranger  like  some  passionate,  unfaith- 
ful lover. 

But  the  new  planet  itself  drowned  all  consciousness  ot 
lesser  things  when  it  rose  magnificently  above  the  eastern  hor- 
izon. That  night  it  was  a  full  circle  of  yellow  liglit,  and  across 
its  great  expanse  moved  one  circle  of  intense  blackness,  tiie 
size  of  our  old  moon,  a  circle  that  was  slowly  increasing  in 
size,  the  shadow  of  our  own  Earth.  So  great  a  thing  appeared 
this  new  planet,  then,  that  when  its  lower  rim  was  at  last  clear 
of  the  horizon,  its  upper  limb  towered  half-way  to  the  zenith. 
It  had  few  markings,  but  from  one  pole,  which  was  turned 
markedly  towards  vis,  radiated  uneven,  dark  lines — chains  of 
mountains,  perhaps — that  definitely  produced  the  effect  of  a 
solid  globe  long  before  its  actual  convexity  was  recognisable. 
All  the  rest  of  the  planet  presented  a  smooth,  unbroken  ex- 
panse, possibly  the  vast  bed  of  some  long-vanished  sea. 

For  an  hour  or  more  my  companion  and  I  had  sat  in  silence 
watching  this  gigantic  spectacle;  then  he  said  quietly,  "We 
are  witnessing  the  failure  of  a  negligible  experiment." 

I  did  not  answer  at  once.  I  had  not  caught  his  drift.  I 
was  struggling  with  a  foolish  preoccupation,  the  result  of  an 
almost  lifelong  habit.  As  I  watched  I  was  searching  for  words 
to  describe  what  I  saw.  I  wanted  to  write  my  experience; 
yes,  even  there,  under  the  sentence  of  death  pronounced  not 


•J2  Sir.NS  AND  WONDFRS 

only  upon  mc,  but  upon  all  luini:uiity,  I  wns  strugiilinp  with 
this  meaningless  desire  to  create  a  record  that  none  could  ever 
read. 

I  made  an  cfTort  and  roused  myself  from  this  inane  pre- 
occupation. "Neglii^ible  r "  I  said,  grasping  at  what  seemed  to 
be  his  most  prominent  word. 

"Proved  to  be  negligible,  "he  asserted,  "^*ou  arc  a  serious 
man?  You  don't  cling  to  straws?  You  have  no  doubt  that 
this  is  tlie  end  of  tlic  Earth  ?  Very  well  then,  you  know  that 
we  arc  to  be  destroyed  ?  By  an  accident  ?  Possibly.  Or  it  may 
be  that  this  arrow  that  has  been  discharged  at  us  was  shot  de- 
liberately; with  a  definite  purpose. 

"It  isn't  as  if  the  same  thing  had  not  happened  before," 
he  continued  after  a  pause.  "We  ha\e  seen  it — seen  the  eff- 
ects at  least.  When  some  temporary  star  blazed  up  in  the  sky, 
we  inferred  some  such  collision  as  this.  It  may  very  well  be 
that  from  a  planet  in  some  other  system  men  may  catch  sight 
of  this  tinv  blaze  of  ours — and  wonder.  It  will  be  relatively 
a  very  small  affair.  Some  of  those  we've  seen  must  have  been 
many  thousand  times  greater. 

"But  the  point  is  that  this  experiment  of  making  men 
upon  the  Earth  is  now  proved  to  be  negligible.  In  a  few  hours 
it  will  be  finished,  wiped  out.  And  whether  tliat  termination 
is  the  result  of  accident  or  design  makes  no  difference  to  the 
effect.  This  is  an  answer  to  all  our  philosophies  and  religions. 
Either  we  are  the  creatures  of  some  chance  evolutionary  pro- 
cess, or  we  are  an  experiment  that  has  failed." 

I  looked  at  him,  and  noted  with  a  curious  stir  of  unplace- 
able  recollection  that  iiis  hea<l  was  too  large. 

"It  is  certain  that  we  shall  go  off  like  an  exploded  shell  ?" 
I  asked. 

"I  don't  fancy  that  many  of  us  will  live  to  see  that," he 
replied.  "Most  of  us  will  be  drowned  in  the  next  tide.  It 
will  come  in  a  wall  of  water  many  tliousand  feet  high.  Don't 
you  notice  a  feeling  of  lightness  in  your  body  r  The  attraction 


A  NEGLIGIBLE  EXPERIMENT  73 

of  this  great  stranger  is  beginning  to  drag  at  us.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  Earth  men  are  feeh'ng  an  iiitolerablc  heaviness.  And 
our  speed  increases.  We  have  been  drawn  out  of  our  orbit. 
We  are  rushing  now  to  greet  the  stranger  with  a  kiss  of  fire. 
Our  circling  about  the  sun  is  done  for  ever.  We  and  the 
stranger  are  leaping  together  like  two  bubbles  in  a  cup." 

I  believe  some  hours  passed  before  I  spoke  again.  A  sense 
of  imminence  had  grown  upon  me  in  the  meantime.  I  was 
aware  of  the  guards  that  were  fetching  me  to  execution. 

"After  all,"  I  cried,  "there  may  still  be  such  a  thing  as  an 
immortal  soul.  Though  every  physical  expression  is  smashed 
at  one  blow,  that  does  not  prove.  ..." 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  proof  possible,"  my  companion 

interrupted.      "But  don't  you  know  in  your  heart  that  it's  no 

good  r" 

*  *  * 

"No  good.  It's  no  good."  I  woke  with  a  start  at  the  repe- 
tition of  that  statement. 

My  young  modeller  was  rolling  a  great  ball  of  plasticine, 
and  before  I  could  stop  him  he  had  thrown  it  with  deadly  ac- 
curacy at  his  effigy  of  man. 

"He  wouldn't  come  right,"  he  explained,  picked  up  the 
shapeless  mass  of  clay,  and  tossed  it  carelessly  into  a  corner  of 
the  workshop. 

"Oh,  but  you  shouldn't  have  done  that,"  I  said,  with  the 
incurable  didacticism  of  the  pedagogue. 


THEMIRACLi: 


She  heard  the  voice,  /;/.<  \i)icc,  speaking  distinctiv,  with 
something  of  the  s;iine  fatahsin,  half-careless,  hall-rcseMtful, 
that  he  had  used  when  he  returned  to  France  after  their  fi\e 
short  days  of  married  life.  For  one  moment  she  believed  that 
it  was  actuall)'  his  voice,  that  he  had  come  suddenly  and  won- 
derfuiiv  out  of  his  six  weeks'  insensibility,  to  a  doubting  inter- 
rogation of  the  darkness.  But  e\en  as  she  fumbled  impatiently 
for  the  switch  of  the  electric  light,  she  knew  that  the  voice  had 
not  come  from  the  bed  on  the  further  side  of  tlie  room,  but  had 
spoken  its  horrible  message  close,  very  close,  to  her  ear — in- 
timateh',  confidentially,  witli  a  touch  of  swaggering,  careless 
courage. 

And  as  the  light,  with  an  effect  of  servile  obedience,  dis- 
closed the  room  at  her  toucii  of  the  switch,  she  had  no  least 
hope  that  she  would  be  the  witness  of  the  longed-for  miracle; 
that  she  would  sec  him  who  had  lain  so  long  a  lax  and  useless 
counterfeit  of  his  vigorous  self,  half  raised  and  questioning  the 
unfamiliar  surroundings  with  his  pitiful  assertion. 

Nevertheless  she  got  out  of  bed,  a  slight  pathetic  figure  in 
the  white  light  that  searched  out  every  corner  of  the  room,  and 
crossed  to  where  he  lay  inert  and  flaccid. 

No,  there  was  no  change  in  him.  The  enigma  that  had 
baffled  all  the  specialists  still  persisted.  He  was  still  the  living 
dead  man  who  had  been  ejected  with  just  one  little  sobbing 
gasp  of  air  out  of  the  narrow  tunnel,  tlie  bore  of  his  own  body, 
by  the  premature  explosion  of  the  mine  he  had  spent  six  weeks' 
labour  iii  laying.  On  the  further  side  that  explosion  had  blown 
out  the  flank  of  a  hill,  but  he  who  had  stoppered  the  narrow 
^■cnt  on  the  hither  side,  like  a  plug  of  damp  earth  in  the  mouth 


THE  MIRACLE  75 

of  a  rifle-barrel,  had  been  softly  expelled  into  the  presence  of 
his  fellow-sappers  waiting  at  the  junction  of  the  wider  tunnel 
they  had  bored,  with  never  a  mark  of  injury  on  him.  Even  his 
hair,  which  had  been  so  near — a  paltry  twenty  feet  or  so — to 
the  charge  that  had  lifted  goodness  knows  how  many  tons  of 
earth  and  stone  sky-high — even  his  hair  had  not  been  singed. 

His  body,  almost  incredibly,  had  come  unscathed  from  its 
open  sight  of  death,  but  something — his  wife  thought  of  it  as 
his  spirit — had  been  instantly  shocked  into  silence.  Since  that 
awful  experience  he  had  gi\cn  no  sign  of  consciousness  or  of 
volition.  His  bodily  functions  continued  their  offices  with  a 
slow,  dull  persistence — he  was  fed  artificially  now  and  again 
to  remedy  the  slight  waste  of  tissue — but  his  spirit  gave  no 
least  sign  of  its  occupancj^ 

The  specialists  had  been  greatly  interested,  but  he  had 
given  them  so  little  material  for  actual  experiment  that  they  had 
yielded  to  his  wife's  urgent  request,  and  yesterday  he  had  been 
transferred  to  her  immediate  care  in  the  reasonably  convenient 
Maida  Vale  flat  in  which  they  had  spent  their  too  restricted 
honeymoon.  .  .  . 

She  leant  over  him  now  and  stared  into  his  composed  im- 
passive face,  every  feature  of  which  was  steady  with  the  chal- 
lenging quiet  of  death.  Where  was  he?  she  wondered.  What 
could  she  conceivably  do  to  reach  Jiim  through  that  unrespon- 
sive instrument  on  the  bed — an  instrument  that  appeared  as 
useless  now  as  an  unstrung  piano  ? 

And  the  voice,  that  had  made  its  immense  admission  with 
the  desperate  gallantry  of  one  who  had  flung  up  his  arms  and 
acknowledged  himself  prisoner  to  the  great  enemy — wlience 
had  come  the  voice  r  She  could  remember  Jio  antecedent  dream. 
The  sound  of  his  speaking  had  wakened  her,  and  in  the  act  of 
waking  she  had  heard  his  surrender  made,  as  clearly  as  if  he 
had  spoken  it  with  his  mouth  at  licr  car.  She  felt  that  she  could 
hear  it  still.  That  reckless  sentence  was  yet  ringing  through 
the  room:  "/'w  dead."  Just  so,  slic  thought,  might  he  have 


y6  SldNS  AND  WONDERS 

sail!  "Kamcr.iil"  in  face  ofsomc  overwhelmingly  superior  force. 

"But  you're  ':ot\  you're  not  dead,"  she  pleaded  to  that  in- 
sensible figure;  "you're  ali\c  if — if  you  would  but  come  back." 

She  might  as  well  ha\e  strummed  on  the  keyboard  of  a 
wireless  piano  for  all  the  reaction  she  could  proilucc  from  the 
lax  representative  that  lay  before  her,  but  her  own  verbal  image 
returned  to  her  with  another  question. 

Come  back  r  From  where  r  Where  was  hr  now — tiic  indi- 
viduality she  addressed  as  ")'ou"r  Was  that  essential  person- 
ality of  his  buried  deep  in  this  spiritless  automaton,  or  was  it 
away  somewhere  in  the  void,  unaware  both  of  its  fleshly  anchor 
and  of  her?  Could  she  not  reach  that  spirit  of  his,  poised  out 
of  time  and  space,  by  the  powers  of  her  own  love  and  longing, 
since  they,  too,  surely  were  able  to  transcend  the  limitations 
of  the  purely  physical  r  But  to  do  that  she  must  not  sit  and  gaze 
at  this  empty  replica  on  the  bed;  she  must  think  not  of  his 
image,  but  of /j////,  not  of  the  representative,  but  of  the  spirit. 

Nevertheless,  when  she  began  to  pace  the  length  of  the 
room,  she  found  that  when  the  sight  of  her  husband's  placid 
face  was  hidden  some  stimulus  to  concentration  was  removed 
also.  While  she  stared  at  him  her  thought  was  held  and  focus- 
sed;  now  she  was  distracted  by  her  \  ision  of  the  familiar  things 
that  were  associated  with  her  past  life  in  his  company.  She 
was  thinking,  not  of  him,  but  of  the  things  he  had  done,  the 
man  he  had  been. 

Perhaps  darkness  might  help  her,  she  thought,  and  she  laid 
herself  down  on  the  bed  and  once  more  quenched  the  obedient 
light. 

For  a  time  she  lay  still,  staring  into  the  blackness,  clenched 
in  a  vivid  effort  of  concentration,  and  then  her  eyes  closed,  and 
even  as  she  protested  that  she  would  not  sleep,  she  had  a  vision 
of  herself  lying  inert  and  pale  on  her  own  bed,  c\cn  as  he  was 

Then  she  seemed  to  be  rising,  baffled  and  half-unwilling, 
through  wreaths  of  a  palpable  darkness  that  clung  about  her 


THE  MIRACLE  77 

with  a  dragging,  suffocating  weight.  And  then  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  was  wandering,  lost  and  perplexed,  on  a  gaunt  and 
arid  phiin  that  might  once  have  been  the  bed  of  a  now  Aanished 
sea. 

She  was  not  alone.  Other  figures,  wraitiis  of  humanity, 
also  wandered  here  and  there.  But  none  noticed  her.  They 
moved  as  if  they  were  searching  for  something  they  could  never 
hope  to  find.  They  peered  vaguely  downwards,  passing  her 
with  bent  heads  and  eyes  that  sought  the  ground  with  a  reluc- 
tant determination.  .  .  , 

She  found  herself  trembling,  not  with  horror,  but  with  a 
rapture  of  expectancy.  She  had  become  aware  that  one  among 
these  drifting  wraiths  was  moving  definitely  towards  her,  drawn 
by  the  power  of  her  longing.  And  she  had  command  of  the 
power,  so  that  it  was  ecstasy  to  wield  it.  Almost  she  was  temp- 
ted to  withhold  her  amazing  strength  in  order  to  taste  again 
the  pleasure  of  its  renewed  exercise. 

Then  with  a  sense  of  some  lost  interval  she  found  herself 
face  to  face  with  him.  But  he  looked  at  her  without  a  sign  of 
recognition.  His  eyes,  too,  were  full  of  that  aimless  intention, 
as  though  he  was  under  an  eternal  command  to  search  for  some 
unknown  thing  that  was  hidden  he  knew  not  where. 

"Paul !"  she  cried  to  him. 

He  made  no  reply.  He  did  not  seem  to  have  heard  her. 
But  still  she  was  conscious  of  her  immense  power  over  him, 

"Paul,"  she  said  again.  "Come  back  with  me." 

He  heard  her  then;  but  now  it  was  as  if  he  could  not  see  her. 
He  looked  about  him,  half-startled,  half-resentful.  "There's 
no  way  back  from  the  plains  of  France,"  he  said,  and  a  sudden 
doubt  shook  her.  Her  power  to  hold  him  was  failing.  From 
out  of  the  ground  the  darkness  was  rising  again  like  a  swelling 
lake  of  still,  black  smoke,  clinging  about  her  feet  with  an  awful 
weight  of  recall. 

She  was  sinking  into  the  blackness,  struggling  against  its 
vast  strength  as  it  rose,  sluggish  and  irresistible,  to  her  waist, 


78 


SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 


her  breast,  her  neck.  She  coviKl  not  fight  its  immense  strength, 
but  her  power  had  returned  to  her.  They  might  be  ihowned 
together  in  the  darkness,  but  she  wouKl  compel  him  to  come 
with  licr.  She  could  sec  him  no  longer,  but  she  was  aware  of 
her  limitless  ability  to  hold  him  to  her  by  the  power  of  her 
longing  and  her  love.  .  ,  . 

She  came  slowly  out  of  some  remote  distance  to  a  realisa- 
tion of  herself  lying  unaccountably  still  and  dazed  on  her  own 
bed.  She  could  not  mo\  e,  as  yet,  but  her  c)  es  were  open,  and 
she  could  see  the  iire\'  outline  of  the  room  in  the  growing  da)'- 
light. 

And  then,  again,  clearly,  but  more  distantly,  she  heard  the 
sound  of  Paul's  \oicc  repeating  his  strange  assertion. 

"I'm  dead,"  he  said,  but  in  the  tone  there  was  now,  she 
tliought,  the  first  flicker  of  a  doubt,  the  statement  of  wonder. 

She  made  a  great  effort  and  raised  herself. 

He  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  propping  his  weakened  body  on 
his  tremulous  arms. 

"You're  not  dead,  Paul ;  you're  >tot^  you're  wo/, "she  scream- 
ed. "I've  brought  you  back,  and  I  am  going  to  hold  you  here." 

In  a  moment  she  was  kneeling  by  him,  supporting,  clasp- 
ing him.  Her  power  had  become  overwhelming,  illimitable. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  grin,  that  was  in  some  way  sheep- 
ish, a  little  ashamed. 

"Well,  if  I'm  not,  I  jolly  well  ought  to  be,"  he  said. 

It  must  have  seemed  to  him  so  boastful  to  be  alive  again. 


YOUNG  STRICKLAND'S  CAREER 


NO  DOUBT  tlic  stoi)  of  tla-  futurL"  is  written,  so  far  as 
the  future  is  nn  expression  of  present  potentialities.  VVc 
boast  our  fureknowledijc  of  planetary  iiistory,  and  can  pro- 
phesy with  fine  accuracy  the  occurence  of  every  major  and 
minor  eclipse  or  occultation  in  the  solar  S)'stem.  But  in  the 
most  precise  science  there  remains  always  at  least  one  element 
that  is  undcfinahle  and  unknowable.  The  regular  traffic  of 
planets  about  the  sun  might  one  day  be  upset  by  the  coming 
of  an  unknown  visitor  from  the  deeps  of  space.  The  materials 
of  our  knowledge  are  so  limited.  And  in  human  affairs  we  know 
so  little  of  the  materials.  Ne\erthcless,  it  may  be  tJiat  to  the 
universal  consciousness  the  future  is  a  foretellable  expression 
of  our  present  potentialities. 

I  remember  how  my  friend  Strickland  used  to  harp  on  that 
theme  eighteen  years  ago.  I  was  incredulous;  a  stickler  for  free- 
will. I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  anything  like  a  cut-and- 
dried  programme  of  human  development.  But  my  one  really 
convincing  retort  to  all  his  arguments  was  to  reply,  "Oh;  on 
broad  lines,  perhaps.  On  the  very  broadest  lines." 

Strickland's  attitude  just  then  was  so  obviously  influenced 
by  his  desires.  He  had  married  at  forty,  had  one  child,  a  bo)', 
and  was  oppressed  by  tiic  fear  that  he  would  not  live  to  see  his 
son's  future.  Strickland  was  obsessed  with  that  idea  for  a  time. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  consult  mediums.  And  a  man  of  for- 
ty- five  who  will  consult  professional  mediums  about  the  future 
cannot  be  quite  sane. 

His  sole  excuse  for  that  lapse  was  the  plea  that  astrology 
had  failed  him.  He  had  had  two  very  expensive  horoscopes  cast, 
and  they  had  been  most  grievously  at  fault  concerning  the  first 
tiirce  years  of  little  Strickland's  h'fe.   Both  forecasts  had  been 


YOUNG  STRICKLAND  S  CAREER 


Si 


gloomy  with  regard  to  those  early  years,  prophesying  a  delicate 
constitution,  unusual  trouble  with  infantile  complaints.  And 
one  horoscope  shrugged  its  inspired  shoulders  at  the  critical 
period  of  teething,  and  continued  with  a  kind  of  cynical  despair, 
as  if  the  astrologer  were  a  little  ashamed  of  the  way  he  was 
earning  his  ten  guineas:  "Should  he,  however,  survive.  ..." 
And  the  truth  was  that  little  Strickland  was  quite  a  fatiguingly 
healthy  child.  His  appetite  and  his  craving  for  exercise,  even 
at  the  age  of  eight  weeks,  were,  admittedly,  almost  abnormal. 

So  Strickland  lost  faith  in  the  pattern  of  the  stars,  and  tried 
mediums,  who  were  not  so  nervous  of  the  magistrates  in  those 
days.  If  he  had  stuck  to  one  clairvoyante  he  might  have  laid 
his  restless  enquiry,  but,  unhappily,  the  first  lady  he  visited 
misread  her  client's  hopes,  and  mapped  out  a  successful  busi- 
ness career  for  his  little  son;  and  Strickland,  who  had  already 
fulfilled  that  destiny  in  his  own  life,  and  had  ambitions  to  see 
his  son  leading  a  "really  sensible  Government,"  took  another 
opinion.  The  second  prophetess,  pathetically  anxious  to  please, 
no  doubt,  saw  young  Strickland  as  a  Bishop;  the  third  was  a 
shade  nearer  to  the  mark  with  an  Admiral;  but  the  fourth — 
a  charming  young  woman,  recently  engaged  to  be  married, 
and  collecting  a  trousseau  by  her  last  profcsssional  efforts — 
made  the  boy  a  Poet. 

After  that  Strickland  bought  a  crystal,  and  tried  to  see  the 
future  for  himself. 

I  laughed  at  him  then,  of  course;  and  even  now  I  feel  in- 
clined to  laugh  at  those  first  foolisli  enquiries  of  his.  But  his 
very  earnestness  should  have  saved  Strickland  from  anything 
like  ridicule;  and  I  am  glad  to  remember  that  I  did  not  laugh 
when  he  told  me  of  the  one  and  only  \  ision  that  came  to  him 
through  the  crystal — it  was,  by  the  way,  an  unusually  fine 
specimen,  as  big  as  an  orange.  He  picked  it  up  second-hand, 
soniewhere  in  Soho. 

As  I  see  it,  one  of  the  most  intriguing  features  of  Strick- 
land's experience  is  the  fact  that  he  had  ceased  to  probe  his 
F 


S2  SIONS  AND  WONDERS 

son's  future  when  the  vision  came.  The  boy  was  seven  years 
old  tlicn,and  had  a  httlcsistcr  of  twoand  a  halfwlio  had  partly 
diverted  her  father's  attention.  And  Strickland  had  probably 
outgrown  the  fear  of  his  own  premature  death;  though  it  may 
be  that  his  passionate  longing  for  assurance  as  to  the  glory  of 
his  boy's  career  had  not  so  much  spent  itself  as  been  tiirust  back 
into  his  sub-consciousness.  Superficially  the  difference  in  him 
w.is  quite  ob\  ious.  The  change  of  iiis  tone,  for  example,  when 
he  spoke  of  his  son.  E\cn  the  manner  of  reference.  Tlic  ten- 
der enunciation  of  "My  little  bo)"  had  altered  to  "That  young 
rascal  of  mine,"  just  the  proudly  modest  description  of  the  or- 
dinary father. 

And  when  the  \  ision  came,  neither  he  nor  I  related  it  in 
any  way  to  his  ancient  search.  .  .  . 

He  came  to  my  rooms  one  evening  after  dinner,  produced 
the  crystal  from  his  pocket,  and  tossed  it  over  to  me. 

"A  present  for  a  sceptic,"  he  said.  "I've  finisiicd  with  it." 

I  might  ha\  e  thought  that  he  was  clearing  up  the  lumber 
of  his  old  fancies  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  manner;  but  the  gar- 
ment of  his  initiation  still  clung  to  him  and  affected  mc  with 
the  strangeness  of  its  myster)'. 

I  shuddered. 

"What  did  you  seer"  I  asked. 

"Oh !  don't  say  you  believe  in  it,"  he  said;  "after  all  your 
jeers  at  mc." 

"Did  you  sec  any  tiling?"  I  insisted,  nursing  the  crystal  in 
the  cave  of  my  two  iiands.  I  stared  into  it  and  saw  the  faint 
pink  of  my  magnified  palm.  No  ^■ision  came  to  mc;  yet  I  was 
aware  of  some  potency  in  the  thing. 

"Perhaps  some  reflection,  some  translation  of  one's  sub- 
consciousness. ..."  I  ventured. 

Strickland  sneered.  "By  God,  I  hope  not,"  he  said, 

"Wliat  were  you — looking  for:"  I  asked. 

"For  nothing.  I  wasn't  looking  for  anything,"  he  said.  "I 
picked  the  tiling  up  by  the  merest  accident.  I  was  going  to  give 


VouNG  Strickland's  career  8.3 

it  to  the  little  girl — as  a  plaything." 

"And  then,  ,  ,  .  "  I  prompted  him. 

"I  saw  a  picture  in  it.  It  snatched  my  attention.  I  wasn't 
thinking.  ..." 

"And  the  picture:'* 

"Hell.  Just  hell.  The  real  thing;  none  of  your  picturesque 
flames  and  torture.  It  came  out  at  me,  as  it  were,  and  it  was 
— well,  the  abomination  of  desolation,  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  that." 

"But.  ..."  I  began. 

He  interrupted  me.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  tlie  vision  of  a 
future  that  had  become  a  fragment  of  his  past.  "A  waste,"  he 
said,  in  a  low,  thoughtful  voice.  "A  dead,  horrible  waste  .  .  . 
all  black  and  pitted  and  furrowed,  .  .  it  looked  as  if  there  had 
been  some  awful,  blasting  eruption.  .  .  or  as  if  the  whole  earth 
had  been  scorched  and  blighted  by  some  unimaginably  vast  fire. 
But,  oh  !  the  terrible  gauntness  and  death  of  it  all." 

He  paused  and  threw  his  head  back  with  a  queer  laugh 
before  he  continued  in  a  new  tone,  "It  was  just  a  silly  night- 
mare, that's  all.  And  it  had  its  inevitable  element  of  the  gro- 
tesque. In  the  middle  of  that  waste  there  was  a  scarecrow,  a 
live  scarecrow — digging.  Digging  turnips,  if  you  please.  Oh  I 
it  was  bosh,  of  course,  absolute  bosh.  I  shall  have  forgotten  all 
about  it  next  week.  But  I  couldn't  give  the  crystal  to  the  little 

girl  after  that.  You  can  keep  it.  Tell  me  if  you  get  anything 
>> 

So  I  kept  the  crystal,  and  sometimes  stared  into  it.  But  no 
vision  came  to  me. 


It  was  in  the  late  autumn  of  1 9 1 9  that  Strickland  got  per- 
mission to  go  out  to  France.  The  war  had  made  an  old  man 
of  liim,  although  he  was  little  over  sixty;  and  he  begged  me  to 
go  with  him.  "I  should  like  you  to  help  me,"  lie  said.  "I  have 
a  feeling  that  we  might,  perhaps,  hear  something  about  that 


84  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

vounn  rascal  of  mine.  'Wouiulcil  and  inis>ini:,' )ou  know,  al- 
wa)  s  loa\  cs  one  with  )ust  a  hope." 

The  first  beautiful  release  of  peace  was  passing  then  into 
that  restless  cravini:  for  immense  action  which  aflectei,!  us  all 
so  strongly  at  that  time;  ami  the  feeling  was  aggra\ateil  in  my 
case  by  the  realisjuion  of  impotence.  I  was  too  oKl  to  help. 

I  accepted  Strickland's  offer,  eagerly.  .  • 

I  do  not  belie\e  that  he  reinembered  his  vision  wiien,  after 
a  week's  fruitless  en(|uir\',  we  came  one  afternoon  to  the  his- 
toric desert  that  had  once  been  beautiful  P'rancc.  Certainly, 
he  made  no  reference  to  his  oKI  experience;  but  he  was  almost 
senile.  I  noticed  a  difference  in  him,  e\cn  in  that  one  week. 

Hut  /  remembered;  and  I  had  a  fit  of  cold  shivering  that  I 
could  not  control  when  we  came  out  on  to  tlic  awful  plain  that 
they  now  call  The  Plain  of  the  Dead,  and  saw  the  figure  of 
that  one  demented  peasant,  dressed  in  the  grotesque  relics  of 
two  nations*  uniforms. 

He  was  digging  feverishly  with  his  pointed  spade,  and  I 
heard  the  ring  of  it  as  it  struck. 

It  was  not  a  turnip  that  he  wrenched  up. 

The  thing  rolled  towards  us.  .  .  . 

Young  Strickland's  head  had  always  been  a  queer  shape. 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  TEMPERAMENT 


THE  differences  between  ')  ounu;'  Ro)cc  niul  'oKP  Huiinett 
had  a  dramatic  cjualit)'  that  stirred  even  the  wearietl  in- 
difference of  Stamp  and  Co.'s  coiwiting-house  to  simjde  efforts 
in  ps)"chological  analysis. 

Young  Ro)ce  was  dark,  square,  and  determined ;  a  reason- 
ed boaster,  who  verified  his  boasts  by  action.  When  he  made 
what  sounded  hkc  a  very  rash  assertion,  it  was  bad  poh'cy  to 
contradict,  and  quite  fatal  to  bet  against  him. 

Old  Bunnctt  was  tall  and  thin,  fair,  drooping,  and  despon- 
dent. He  seldom  committed  himself  to  a  confident  statement 
of  opinion,  but  gravely,  almost  voluptuously,  hoped  for  the 
worst  on  e\  cry  possible  occasion.  He  was,  by  the  office's  classi- 
fication, of  the  same  breed  as  "old  Robinson,"  who  IkuI  come 
into  the  firm  as  a  boy  of  fourteen  and  had  now  scr\  cd  his  em- 
ployers faithfully  for  fifty-one  years. 

Royce  found  a  delight  in  marking  that  likeness.  "lUiniu', 
my  boy,"  he  used  to  sa)-,  ")'ou'vc  come  licrc  to  stop.  Wlicn  I 
come  back  here  in  twenty  )'cars'  time  I  shall  find  you  still  at 
the  same  old  grind.    You'll  never  get  out  of  it." 

"Not  so  sure  as  I  want  to,"  was  Bunny's  single  form  of 
defence  against  this  impeachment  of  his  powers  of  initiati\c — 
that  and  a  snifF.  The  sniff"  was  his  characteristic  comment  on 
life;  a  long  and  thoughtful  substitute  for  speech.  He  was  not 
more  than  ordinarily  susceptible  to  colds  in  the  liead;  and  his 
sniff"  was  less  a  physical  function  than  a  vehicle  of  menial  ex- 
pression. 

Young  Royce,  liowe\cr,  wanted  and  meant  to  leave  the 
firm  "directl)'  he  could  see  his  way,"  as  he  put  it.  He  had  a 
vein  of  prudence,  Or  it  may  have  been  merely  shrewdness,  that 
was  sometimes  overlooked  bv  those  who  had  come  a  little  to 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  TEMPERAMENT  87 

dread  the  threat  of  his  boasting.  Tiie  one  consolation  afforded 
to  those  who  suffered  under  his  imph'cation  of  their  fceblenesss 
was  the  reflection  that  he  would  almost  certainly  "go  to  the 
bad  one  of  these  days."  Bunny,  alone,  was  pessimist  enough 
to  admit  that  Royce  would  "get  on."  He  had  been  known  to 
add,  "Sure  to;  he's  the  sort  that  gets  on." 

The  office  as  a  whole  jealously  disagreed  with  him;  and 
in  their  vehement  denouncement  of  Bunny's  pessimism  failed 
to  recognise  that  underl)'ing  all  the  violent  and  obvious  con- 
trasts between  Royce  and  Bunnett  there  was  at  least  one  point 
of  likeness,  inasmuch  as  they  both  believed  in  Royce.  (The 
only  likeness  conceded  by  the  office  was  the  coincidence  that 
both  men  were  born  in  the  same  month  of  the  same  year,  and 
had  come  into  the  firm  of  Stamp  and  Company  on  the  same 
day.) 

Ro}'cc  had  actually  left  the  firm  on  the  Satiu'day  afternoon 
that  first  introduced  him  to  Bunnctt's  mother  on  Hampstead 
Heath.  He  had  "seen  his  way"  as  far  as  a  job  at  Capetown — 
a  very  risky  and  uncertain  affair,  in  the  office's  opinion. 

He  had  a  streak  of  romantic  sentiment  hidden  away  some- 
where, and  he  had  come  up  to  the  Spaniards'  Road  to  "take  a 
last  look  at  London."  He  was  leaning  over  the  railings  looking 
down  across  tlie  Vale  of  Health,  when  he  became  aware  of  an 
arrested  Bunnettsniffing  profoundly  at  the  back  of  a  bath-chair. 

"My  mother,"  Bunnett  said,  by  way  of  introduction,  and 
then  in  a  half-aside,  "she's  a  bit  of  an  in\'alid,  but  she's  been  a 
little  better  lately,  ain't  you,  mother?  This  is  the  Mr.  Royce 
I  was  telling  )ou  about.  Just  going  out  to  South  Africa." 

Mrs.  Bunnett  pinched  her  mouth  into  a  line  of  sympath- 
etic disapproval.  "It's  a  long  way  to  go,"  she  remarked — and 
sniffed  thoughtfully. 

She  and  her  son  were,  Royce  thought,  as  exactly  alike  as 
a  couple  of  old  sheep. 

The  job  in  Capetown  proved  c\  en  more  uncertain  than 
the  office  had  hopefully  predicted,  and  Royce  presently  mi- 


88  i.Ii;NS  AND  WONDERS 

gratcil  to  Mclhournc.  Tlicncc  he  JiiftLHl  across  to  Ilohart.  A 
ycnr  later  he  liail  louiiil  a  temporary  post  in  Ce)K)ii,  then 
worked  his  way  up  the  Hay  of  Hcngal  to  Calcutta,  and  stayed 
there  a  month  hefore  he  took  ship  to  Tientsin.  It  was  in  i  909, 
sc\cn  years  after  he  had  left  London,  that  he  first  put  foot  in 
America,  landing  at  San  Francisco,  after  crossing  t)ie  Pacific 
from  ^'okohama  b)'  wiiy  of  Hawaii. 

In  those sc\  en  years  he  had  suffered  and  learnt  many  things, 
but  if  the  staff'  of  Stamp  and  Co.'s  counting-house  had  met 
"young  Royce"  on  his  l.mding  in  California  the-)'  would  have 
found  no  difference  in  him.  He  came  ashore  with  the  boast 
that  he  meant  to  make  money  in  America. 

Anil,  indeed,  his  apparent  failure  to  win  any  financial 
succe>s  during  those  )  ears  of  wandering  was  due  rather  to  that 
streak  (;f  imaginative  romance  in  him  than  to  an)'  weakness  of 
character.  It  had  been  necessary  for  him  to  satisf)'  s<miic  lust 
for  adsenture  and  experience  before  he  could  settle  down  to 
achieve  a  worldly  ambition.  He  knew  himself  well  enough  to 
recognise  his  own  qualit)'.  He  had  a  perfect  confidence  in  his 
ability  to  make  money  e\  cntually.  And  just  as  he  iiad  made 
good  his  boasts  in  the  old  da)s,  so  now  he  made  good  his  de- 
termination to  seek  another  form  of  romance  in  America. 

It  would  be  superfluous  to  trace  the  means  of  his  ascent. 
He  was  so  obviously  the  successful  t\pe  that  readily  finds  em- 
ployment and  opportunit)'  in  the  United  States.  He  had  de- 
termination combined  with  initiative  and  imagination.  It  is 
doubtful  if  even  the  deliberate,  conservative  methods  of  Stamp 
and  Co.  could  have  overlooked  his  ability  if  he  had  elected  to 
stay  in  the  employ  of  that  stately  English  concern. 

He  became  an  American  citizen  in  191 3,  but  he  did  not 
revisit  London  until  the  autumn  of  1 91  7,  when  he  came  over 
on  business  as  a  representative  of  the  Steel  Trust.  Arthur  H. 
Rovce  had  become  a  person  of  considerable  importance  and 
influence.  He  stayed  at  tlic  Carlton  Hotel  during  the  progress 
of  his  negotiations  with  the  English  Go\  ernmejit  Department, 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  TEMPERAMENT  §9 

the  methods  of  which  he  ridiculctl  as  being  founded  on  the 
same  principles  as  those  familiar  to  him  in  the  counting-house 
of  Messrs.  Stamp  and  Co. 

But  the  old  streak  of  romance  showed  itself  again  on  the 
last  Saturday  of  his  stay  in  England.  He  had  not  called  on  the 
partners  or  employees  of  his  old  office.  He  had  come  to  boast 
in  action  Jiow,  and  the  boast  of  language  had  become  futile 
and  unnecessary.  He  went  up  to  the  Spaniards'  Road  solely 
to  satisfy  some  need  for  self-approval  that  he  hoped  to  find  in 
the  contrast  between  his  present  condition  and  that  in  which 
he  had  last  looked  down  o\cr  tlie  hazy  prospect  of  London, 
fifteen  years  before. 

He  was  leaning  over  the  rail  in  mucii  the  same  place  and 
attitude  when  he  saw,  with  a  strange  thrill,  the  once  familiar 
figure  of  old  Bunnett  coming  towards  him,  pushing  his  invalid 
mother  in  what  was  surely  the  same  bath-chair. 

Royce  straightened  himself,  and  turned  to  meet  them.  He 
wondered  if  they  would  recognise  him.  There  was  something 
of  the  old  self-conscious  boast  in  his  attitude  as  he  held  out  his 
hand  and  said; 

"Hullo!  Bunn}'.   Still  here,  thenT' 

Bunnett  and  his  mother  sniffed  iji  concert,  a  deep  and 
melancholy  comment  on  life. 

"Still  here,"  agreed  Bunnett,  and  his  mother  added,  "So 
you're  back  in  London,  Mr.  Royce r" 

"For  a  few  da3's,"  Royce  admitted. 

"South  African  job  turn  out  all  right?"  Bunnett  asked. 

Royce  hesitated.  Li  one  swift  flash  of  retrospect  he  looked 
back  on  those  full  and  \aricd  adventures  that  had  begun  for 
him  with  the  voyage  to  Capetown,  and  knew  that  though  he 
stood  there  talking  and  boasting  for  a  week,  he  could  not  con- 
vey to  old  Bunnett  and  liis  mother  one-hundredth  part  of  the 
romance  and  wonder  that  had  glorified  his  existence  for  fifteen 
years. 

"Oh!  yes;  all  right,"hc  said; "and  you?  Still  with  Stamns?" 


^6  Sir.NS  AND  WONDERS 

Aiul  Runneti,  too,  licsit;itci.l  as  if  there  were  something  he 
also  lackcil  power  to  describe  before  lie  answered  "Yes,  still 
there."* 

The  conversation  seemed  to  offer  no  further  possibilities. 
For  a  moment  thev  stood  awkwardh  ,  and  then  l^vuinett  said, 
"My  mother's  a  bit  of  an  in\  alid,  but  she's  been  a  little  better 
lately."   He  sniffed  thoughtfully. 

As  Ro)Cc  made  his  way  back  to  his  hotel  he  modestly 
thanked  God  that  he  was  not  as  some  other  men. 

He  had,  however,  missed  one  small  observation.  He  had 
been  standing  on  Bunnett's  right  side  as  they  talked,  and  had 
not  noticed  that  he  had  lost  his  left  arm. 


REFERENCE  WANTED! 


AS  USUAL,  the  compartment  was  iicarl)'  empty  after  wc 
left  Rickmaiiswdrth,  aiui  I  anticipated  that  my  one  otlicr 
fellow-passenger  would  pri>hahly  get  out  at  the  next  station 
and  leave  me  to  fini>h  the  dull  journtv  alone.  I  did  not,  in  any 
case,  expect  much  entertainment  from  his  societ)'.  He  had  a 
narrow  forehead,  and  a  preoccupied,  rather  scared,  expression. 
It  crossed  my  mind  that  lie  might  ha\e  been  a  suflerer  from 
shell-shock.  I  had  seen  that  look  in  the  eyes  of  one  such  case, 
a  look  at  once  timid,  defensive,  and  suspicious.  I  was  surprised 
when  he  came  across  the  compartment  to  the  seat  opposite  to 
mc  and  began  to  talk. 

Wc  opened  in  the  usual  way  by  abusing  the  line,  but  he 
broke  off  in  the  middle  to  comment  on  the  book  I  had  been 
reading,  Dostoievsky's  Tlu-  Posu-sst'd. 

"Fine  stufF,  that,"  he  commented,  looked  at  nic  suspici- 
ously for  a  moment,  and  then  added,  "What's  that  other  book 
of  his,  Anna — something?" 

"Anna  Kareninr"  I  suggested. 

He  nodded. 

"But  that's  Tolstoi,"  I  said. 

"Very  likely,"  he  replied;  "I'.c  no  memory  for  some 
things.  No  memor)'  at  all.  But  I'v  e  read  more  than  you  might 
expect.  To  be  quite  honest,  when  I  was  a  bit  )  oungcr  I  read 
too  much." 

I  pricked  up  my  ears.  I  saw  the  promise  of  getting  him  to 
talk  about  himself.  And  I  can  listen  to  anything  a  man  has  to 
tell  me  of  his  own  histor)- ;  it  is  only  men's  opinions  that  I  find 
so  boring.   Why  v/ill  people  have  opinions: 

"And  overstrained  your  memory."'  I  asked. 

He  shook  his  head  and  pursed  his  mouth.   "It  wasn't  that 


REFERENCE  wanted!  93 

that  ruined  my  prospects,"  lie  said. 

"Nor"  I  commented,  as  pro\ocatively  as  I  could. 

He  leaned  a  little  forward  and  frowned  with  an  effect  of 
thoughtful  concentration  as  he  said,  "You  see,  in  some  ways 
I've  got  too  good  a  memory;  the  trouble  with  me  is  that  I  can't 
remember  what  V\e  remembered." 

I  raised  my  e}'ebrows  interrogatively.  I  could  see  that  he 
was  warm,  now,  with  the  cra\  ing  to  confess  himself. 

"You  aren't  a  writer,  yourself,  by  any  chancer"  he  asked. 

"I've  done  a  certain  amount,"  I  admitted. 

"Thought  you  had  rather  that  look,"  he  said;  and  went 
on  quickly  as  if  he  were  afraid  that  I  might,  in  the  circum- 
stances, be  tempted  to  detail  my  own  achievements;  "and  that 
being  so,  my  case  might  interest  you,  professionally,  as  you 
might  say." 

"It  certainly  would,  if  you  care  to.  ..."  I  began,  but  I 
saw  that  he  was  not  listening.  Those  queer-looking  eyes  of 
his  had  taken  on  the  expression  of  one  who  is  engaged  in  some 
immense  efl'ort  of  memory. 

"As  a  young  man,"  he  said — I  guessed  him  to  be,  then, 
about  thirty-five — "I  had  a  great  ambition  to  become  a  v,a-iter; 
but  although  my  mind  was  full  of  ideas,  I  had  no  gift  for  put- 
ting them  into  language.  At  first,  I  tried  in  the  ordinary  way, 
just  as  all  beginners  do,  to  write  stories  for  the  magazines;  but 
they  none  of  them  got  accepted.  Which  wasn't  to  be  wondered 
at.  I  knew  mj'self  how  bad  they  were,  and  I  used  to  console 
myself  a  little  with  that  knowledge.  I  may  have  read  some- 
wiiere  that  so  long  as  you  kept  a  cool  head  about  your  own 
writing,  tiicre  was  hope  for  you. 

"Anyway,  I  left  off  writing  for  a  time — I  v/asn't  twenty 
then — and  took  to  studying.  I  read  all  the  best  authors — 
carefully,  trying  to  see  how  the  thing  was  done.  I  had  a  lot  of 
spare  time  one  way  and  another,  and  in  the  next  five  years  I 
got  through  a  wonderful  lot  of  reading.  I  didn't  confine  myself 
to  English  authors,  cither;  I  read  a  heap  of  translations  from 


<)4  SIGN.N  AND  WONUFR? 

Russian,  French,  nnd  Gorman.  AnJ  all  that  time  I  never  once 
tried  to  write  again,  m)sclf.  I  was  just  getting  to  Icarn  my 
trade,  I  thought. 

"Then  I  lost  my  job  in  the  city,  and  while  I  w.is  looking 
about  for  another  one  I  had  another  shot  at  writing  a  magazine 
story.  Well,  it  w.is  certainly  the  nearest  I'd  got  up  to  then  of 
being  the  riglit  tiu'ng.  It  was  a  lot  better  written  tiian  any  of 
my  other  shots,  but  the  plot  was  too  weak.  And  I  found  that 
in  learning  to  write  I  had  lost  all  my  ideas.  I'd  forgotten  all 
the  old  ones,  and  no  new  ones  came  to  me.  At  least,  not  at 
first." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  looked  out  of  the  window  before 
he  continued,  rather  abruptly:  "An  idea  came  to  me,  though, 
in  the  train  one  day — the  best  I'd  ever  had.  And  I  not  only 
saw  tlie  whole  stor)'  clear  in  my  mind,  but  I  saw  just  how  it 
ought  to  be  written.  I  went  home  and  began  it  at  once.  I  had 
it  finished  in  two  days.  A  little  masterpiece  I  thought  it  was. 
I  submitted  it  to  one  of  the  reviews,  and  it  was  accepted  within 
a  week. 

"/\  fortnight  later  I'd  written  another.  It  was  very  diff- 
erent from  the  first — done  in  another  mood,  as  you  might  say, 
and  lighter  altogether.  But  that  one  came,  too,  as  an  inspira- 
tion, and  was  accepted  by  one  of  the  magazines.  And,  after 
that,  I  used  to  get  inspirations  every  other  da)'  almost — all 
sorts  of  inspirations.  I  saw  myself  as  the  most  \ersatile  and 
gifted  writer  of  the  day.  I  fancied  that  when  my  stories  were 
collected  and  published  in  book  form  they  would  cause  a  lot 
of  attention.  By  the  time  my  second  story  appeared  in  the 
magazine —  that  was  the  first  to  get  into  print — I  had  written 
about  eight  altogether,  and  they'd  all  been  taken  by  some  edi- 
tor or  another — except  one." 

He  paused  again,  and  remained  silent  for  so  long  that  I 
prompted  him  by  saying:  "What  was  the  matter  with  that 
one  exception?" 

He  looked  at  rac  and  sighed,    '^Thcre  wasn't  anything 


REFERENCE  WANTED !  ()$ 

wrong  with  the  story,  as  you  might  say,"  he  said;  but  there 
was  a  note  from  tiie  editor  in  which  he  said  that  my  story  ap- 
pearad  to  be  a  translation  from  some  French  writer,  I've  for- 
gotten the  name,  and  should  not  have  been  submitted  as  an 
original  contribution.   Rather  a  nasty  note  it  was, 

"And  about  a  week  later  my  first  story  came  out  in  the 
review,  and  then  there  was  the  devil  to  pay.  It  seems  that  that 
was  a  translation,  too,  from  the  Russian,  and  had  been  printed 
in  English,  In  a  collection  of  the  fellow's  works.  His  name 
began  with  a  T,  too,  I  fancy,  but  it  wasn't  Tolstoi." 

"Turgenevf"  I  suggested. 

"Very  likely,"  he  said  wearily.  "/  can't  remember.  All 
I  know  is  that  every  one  of  my  stories  were  cribs.  I'd  remem- 
bered tliem  all,  and  didn't  remember  that  I'd  remembered. 
Well,  I  got  back  all  the  stories  that  hadn't  been  published,  but 
there  was  the  very  deuce  of  a  row." 

The  train  was  drawing  into  Aylesbury,  and  my  companion 
got  up  and  collected  his  things  from  the  rack.  Before  he  got 
out,  however,  he  paused  to  say,  "Well,  there  you  are.  It  was 
a  dreadful  experience  for  me,  but  if  you  can  make  any  use  of 
it,  professionally,  so  to  speak,  you Ve  welcome  to  it.  Good-day 
to  you." 

I  had  still  four  more  stations  to  go,  and  I  sat  on,  turning 
over  that  strange  confession  in  my  mind.  The  man  had  ap- 
peared to  be  honest,  the  story  sounded  true  as  he  told  it,  yet  his 
phraseology  and  his  accent  were  not  those  I  should  have  ex- 
pected from  one  of  liis  literary  experience. 

But  wliat  worries  me  most  of  all  is  the  vague  but  horribly 
persistent  impression  that  somewhere,  at  some  time,  I  have 
seen  that  story  of  his  in  print.  .  .  . 


AS  THE  CROW  FIJF.S 


IT  IS  more  than  twcnt)'  ycrirs,  now,  since  the  late  George 
Wallace  came  into  the  offices  of  Hallows  and  Rice  one 
afternoon  and  talked  to  mc  about  the  novel  he  was  writing. 
He  was  well  known,  even  then,  as  journalist,  cssa)  ist,  pla)- 
wrii^ht,  and  poet,  and  I  welcomed  with  enthusiasm  the  sug- 
gestit)!!  that  the  firm  of  publishers  for  which  I  was  then  reader 
should  consider  the  book  when  it  was  written.  He  told  mc  in 
the  strictest  confidence  that  the  title  was  to  be  Js  the  ^ro^t/ 
f/itSy  and  ga\e  me  a  hint  of  the  subject  he  proposed  to  treat. 
Both  title  and  subject  were,  I  thought,  admirable  from  every 
point  of  view,  but  he  said  that  he  would  prefer  me  to  say  noth- 
ing to  the  firm  about  the  novel  until  it  was  actually  written. 
"Wait  until  you've  read  it,  my  dear  chap,"  he  said.  "I  haven't 
told  another  soul  as  yet,  and  I  don't  want  to,  until  the  thing's 
done  and  off  my  hands." 

I  did  not  see  him  again  for  nearly  six  months.  He  was  the 
guest  of  th.c  exening  at  a  small  literary  dining  club  on  that 
occasion,  and  v.'hcn  I  went  over  and  sat  down  by  him,  after 
the  speeches,  ho  instantly  referred  to  our  last  inters  iew  by  say- 
ing, "It's  getting  on,  but  we  can't  talk  about  it  here.  How's 
the  business?"  I  told  him  that  the  business,  so  far  as  I  was 
concerned,  remained  in  a  state  of  lensc  expectation  for  a  really 
firstclass  no\cl.  He  nodded  with  an  air  of  satisfaction.  "You 
shall  have  it,"  he  said.  "If  you'll  walk  part  of  the  \va)  home 
with  me  I'll  tell  you  something  about  it."  He  lived  at  Highgate, 
and  my  rooms  were  at  Heme  Hill,  but  I  was  prepared  to  miss 
the  last  train  rather  than  lose  that  confidence.  I  was  very  eager 
in  those  da)'S. 

And  I  certainly  did  not  regret  the  walk  to  Highgate  and 
back,  nor  the  two  hours'  wait  at  Ludgate  Hill  for  the  3.15 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES  97 

'paper'  train.  Wallace  let  liimself  go  that  night,  and  made  me 
realise  that  his  novel  was  to  be  the  best  tiling  for  years.  He  told 
me  all  about  it.  The  book  was  to  be  a  complete  exposition  of 
the  British  national  character,  as  portrayed  in  the  person  of  his 
hero,  Joseph  Blake.  Blake  was  to  be  a  success;  a  typical  mem- 
ber of  the  middle  class,  educated  at  a  grammar  school,  entering 
a  business  career  at  eighteen,  and  Parliament  at  forty-five; 
achieving  cabinet  rank  at  fifty-four,  and  the  Premiership  at 
sixty-three.  As  a  background  to  the  central  figure  there  were 
to  beany  numberof  minor  characters,all,  as  it  were,  supporting 
and  representing  Blake — "the  firm  mass  of  British  opinion" 
Wallace  called  it.  The  single  exception  was  to  be  a  school 
friend  of  Blake's,  a  man  of  brilliant  parts,  but  without  social  or 
personal  ambitions,  who  spent  his  life  in  writing  works  of 
philosophy  that  nobody  wanted  to  read.  He  was  not  poor,  nor, 
in  a  sense,  neglected — "we'll  get  away  altogether  from  the 
typical  romance,"  Wallace  commented — but  his  work  and 
life  counted  for  nothing  in  popular  opinion.  The  real  climax 
of  the  book,  and  incidentally  the  very  first  suggestion  that 
Blake  was  not  a  great  man  nor  his  friend  ("I  have  thought  of 
calling  him  John  Rooke,"  Wallace  said)  a  failure,  was  reached 
in  the  last  few  pages,  when  Blake,  after  a  prolonged  illness, 
and  patiently  waiting  for  death,  confides  in  Rooke  that  he 
knows,  now,  that  such  a  career  as  his  had  been  was  wasted 
effort.  To  which  Rooke  replies  that  he  had  known  that  at 
school.  n 

"How  much  of  the  book  ha\'c  you  written  r"  I  asked  Wal- 
lace just  before  we  parted. 

"About  80,000  words,"  he  told  me,  "but  I  am  not  abso- 
lutely satisfied  with  some  of  the  detail.  What  I  propose  to  do 
is  to  finish  the  thing  and  then  partly  rewrite  it." 

He  went  to  America  on  a  long  lecture-tour  that  autumn, 
and  I  did  not  see  him  again  for  twelve  months.  I  sought  him 
out,  then,  because  McGillett  made  a  casual  reference  to  the 
magnum  opus  at  lunch  one  day,  and  I  realised  that  I  was  no 

G 


98  SIC-.N?  AND  WONDERS 

longer  the  only  recipient  of  Wallace's  confulcncc.  In  those 
il:\ys  one  of  McGiiiett's  sources  of  income  was  /indin;^  books 
for  publishers,  and  afterwards  usin;^  what  influence  he  had  to 
<^et  his  disco\  eries  well  noticed  in  the  Press;  and  when  I  found 
that  he  knew  about  the  book,  I  was  afraid  that  I  mii;ht  not, 
after  all,  tret  it  for  Hallows  and  Rice. 

\Vallacc  reassured  nie,  howe\  er.  He  said  that  he  ne\er 
went  back  on  a  bari:ain,  anil  whin  I  pointed  out  to  him  that 
no  bari^ain  had  been  made  as  yet,  he  juoniised  to  call  at  the 
office  next  day  and  discuss  terms  with  the  partners.  On  my 
recommendation,  the  terms  offered  were  ama/.ingly  liberal  for 
a  first  novel;  but  my  enthusiasm  was  powerful  enough  for  once 
too\ercomc  the  awful  inertia  of  old  Hallows.  (He  had  been 
in  the  publishini:  business  for  thirty  years,  and  his  one  idea  was 
to  buy  as  cheajily  as  he  could.  He  had  no  conception  of  what 
Rice  and  m\self  understood  by  'enterprise.')  The  firm  even 
went  so  far  as  to  oftlr  to  pay  a  proportion  of  the  'advance'  on 
si<j;ning  the  agreement,  but  Wallace  refused  to  accept  that.  He 
said  that  it  would  harass  him  to  feel  tied;  and  he  would  not 
promise  any  particular  date  for  the  delivery  of  the  manuscript. 
"I've  nearly  finished  the  book,"  he  told  vis,  "but  when  it's 
written,  I  want  to  put  it  awa\-  for  three  months  atul  then  go 
right  through  it  again  with  a  fresh  mind.  I  mean  this  book  to 
be  a  classic."  Old  Hallows  was  tremendously  impressed,  I 
remember,  and  congratulated  me  on  ha\  ing  made  "a  real  find." 

After  that  agreement  was  signed  I  no  longer  felt  it  neces- 
sary to  hold  ni)-  tongue  about  tlie  book,  and  I  dropped  a  hint 
or  two  here  and  there  as  to  what  nu'ght  be  expected  when  it 
was  published.  I  cannot  believe,  howe\  er,  that  I  was  the  chief 
instigator  of  the  steadily  growing  interest  that  was  being  aroused 
by  the  promise  of  Wallace's  novel.  No  doubt  both  old  Hallows 
and  Rice  made  occasional  references  in  public  to  the  same  sub- 
ject, but  I  fancy  that  Wallace  himself  was  the  really  active 
propagandist.  In  any  case,  one  was  contiimally  finding  refer- 
ences to  y/i  (he  C'oiv  F/irs  in  the  Press  that  spring,  even  the 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES  99 

name  of  Joseph  Blake  was  sometimes  referred  to  as  an  exemp- 
lar of  the  British  character.  Tlie  book  was  asked  for  at  the 
libraries,  and  I  more  tlian  once  met  people  who  declared  that 
they  had  read  it.  At  the  ofHcc  we  had  decided  to  print  a  first 
edition  of  20,000  copies,  and  we  put  a  note  about  it  in  our 
autumn  list.  Wallace  assured  me  that  summer  (1899)  that  the 
thing  was  done  and  only  needed  a  final  revision.  "If  I  died 
tomorrow,"  he  said,  "the  story  is  all  there  ready  to  be  published, 
but  there  is  an  incident  or  two  that  I  want  to  alter  before  I  send 
it  along  to  you.  I  mean  to  deli\  er  )ou  a  perfect  manuscript.  I 
sha'n't  touch  the  thing  in  proof.'' 

And  then,  of  course,  we  did  not  press  him  for  delivery  in 
the  autumn  of  that  year.  We  should  not,  in  nn\  case,  have 
published  so  important  a  book  during  tlie  first  months  of  the 
Boer  war.  And  in  the  following  spring  Wallace  himself  went 
out  to  South  Africa.  I  did  not  see  him  before  he  went.  In  fact, 
I  did  not  know  he  had  enlisted  until  I  saw  a  reference  to  the 
fact  in  the  "literary  notes"  that  were  just  beginning  to  break 
out  again  in  the  daily  and  weekly  papers. 

In  that  paragraph  Wallace's  name  was,  as  usual,  coupled 
with  that  of  his  no\'el  Js  the  Qrow  Flicsy  a  precedent  that  was 
invariably  followed  two  months  later  in  his  obituary  notices. 
(It  will  be  remembered  that  he  died  of  enteric  in  June  1900.) 
Many  of  the  writers  assumed  that  the  book  had  already  been 
published,  but  some  of  the  better  informed  expressed  their 
eagerness  to  read  the  book  which  they  understood  had  been 
completed  before  Wallace  went  out  to  the  front. 

I  firmly  believe  that  our  failure  to  discover  that  precious 
manuscript  of  Wallace's  was  the  cause  of  old  Hallows's  break- 
down and  subsequent  retirement  from  the  business.  He  used 
to  go  up  to  Highgate  two  or  three  days  a  week  to  search  Wal- 
lace's house  for  possible  hiding  places.  "He  would  have  been 
sure  to  have  put  it  in  some  very  safe  place  before  he  left  the 
country,"  he  would  say,  and  then  fret  himself  into  a  fever 
lamenting  the  "rank  imbecility"  of  not  having  insisted  on  tak- 


100  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

iiig  charge  of  the  precious  script  before  Wallace  went  away. 

Rice's  theory  was  that  Wallace  had  taken  the  MS.  with 
hitn  to  make  his  final  re\  ision,  hut  I  ha\  e  often  wondered  whe- 
ther Wallace  had  ever  begun  it.  I  ha\  e  found  a  suggestion  of 
tiiat  one  fatal  omission,  in  his  title.  He  took  too  direct  a  method. 
So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  book  was  written, and  published, 
and  noticeil,  without  his  lia\  ing  put  pen  to  paper. 

IJut  the  queer  thing  is  that  the  unwritten  hook  has  outlived 
him.  For  some  reason  it  was  not  forgotten  in  the  stress  of  the 
South  African  war.  And  it  will  be  remembered  that,  in  the 
reaction  of  the  first  years  of  this  century,  As  the  Q^^-k  Flies  was 
constantly  'cpiotcd,'  and  that  there  was  cpn'te  a  contro\  ersy  as 
to  whether  tlic  figure  of  Josepli  IJIakc  did  not  stand  for  that  of 
Joseph  Chamberlain. 

Indeed,  I  was  tempted  to  put  down  these  notes  of  the  true 
facts  of  the  case  because  a  friend  asked  me  yesterday  where  he 
could  get  a  book  called  /Is  the  Cro^'^'  f/'''Sy  by  George  Wallace. 
A  man  had  told  him,  he  said,  that  it  was  the  finest  novel  of  the 
ccnturv. 


THK  NIGHT  OF  CRKATK  >N 


PARI-   I  :    1  HE  DISCUSSION 

I 

Tup:  discussion  IkuI  thrcatcncil  while  they  were  still 
at  dinner.  Leslie  Wrnon  hml  bemiii  it:  and  there  had 
been  a  hardness  and  a  deterininntion  in  his  expression  that  had 
sharpened  the  svigijestion  of  fanaticism  in  his  cle\  or  face.  Little 
Harrison,  already  looking  a  trifle  flushed  and  dishevelled,  had 
only  managed  to  a\  old  the  direct  issue  by  talking  rapidl)',  and 
with  soinething  more  than  his  usual  brilliance,  about  the  true 
inwardness  of  the  Russian  Rc\o!ution;a  subject  upon  which 
he  had  recently  acquired  some  very  special  information.  E\  en 
Lady  Ulrica  More,  who  was  manifestly  prepared  to  encourage 
Vernon,  had  been  borne  down  and  fairly  talked  into  silence. 

Tile  other  guests  of  the  week-end  part\',  altliough  they 
had  shown  no  signs  of  disappro\  ing  V^ernon's  choice  of  topic 
when  he  had  irrelevantly  introduced  it,  had  accepted  their  cue 
with  a  tactful  readiness.  Little  Harrison  was  their  host,  and  if 
lie  wished,  as  he  obviously  did,  to  avoid  this  topic  of  Ps)chical 
Research,  it  was  their  dut\'  to  support  him.  Morcoxcr,  Mrs. 
Harrison  had  cut  in  almost  at  once,  with  that  bird-like  flustered 
air  of  hers,  to  the  effect  that  spiritualism  was  almost  "worse 
than  religion  with  some  people"  and  ne\  er  led  to  anything  but 
recriminations.  V^ernon  had  smiled  with  a  fine  effect  of  self- 
control  when  she  had  said  that,  but  before  he  could  defend 
himself,  Harrison  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  had  got  under 
way  with  an  anecdote  of  Lenin's  prc-re\ olution  career  in  Swit- 
zerland. 

And  directly  dinner  was  fiiuMiod,  he  had  suggested  that 
they  should  take  their  coffee  and  licjucurson  the  lawn  under 
the  cedar.    There  was  excuse  enough  —  it  was  a  wonderful 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  1 O3 

night — but  Greatorcx,  the  leader-writer,  who  had  acquired  a 
habit  of  always  looking  for  secret  motives,  was  probably  right 
in  calling;  the  move  to  the  garden  "a  clever  dod<'e." 

"Dodger"  enquired  young  Fell  listlessly.  He  had  sat 
through  dinner  with  a  melancholy  air  of  wondering  how  people 
could  be  interested  in  spirits  whether  of  the  dead  or  of  the  Rus- 
sians; but  Grcatorex  had  been  too  much  engrossed  in  drawing 
his  own  inferences  to  take  any  notice  of  Fell's  distraction. 

"Rather,"  he  said,  taking  Fell's  arm.  "Gives  Harrison  the 
chance  of  slipping  off  when  he  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  In  a 
room,  it's  a  bit  pointed  to  get  up  and  go  away,  but  out  here 
Vernon'll  [probably  find  iu'mself  addressing  Harrison's  empty 
chair." 

Fell  sighed.  "Wliat's  he  want — Vernon,  I  mean?"  he 
asked  indifferently. 

Greatorcx  was  willing  enougli  to  explain.  "He  wants  to 
bring  Harrison  to  book,"  he  said,  leading  his  companion  down 
towards  the  sunk  fence  out  of  earshot  of  the  rest  of  the  party. 
"You  see,  Vernon  has  been  tremendously  interested  in  that 
book  of  Schrenck-Notsing's.  You've  seen  it,  I  expect?  It's 
all  about  materialisations.  Extraordinary  stuff.  They  did  get 
amazing  results.  The  book's  full  of  photographs  of  the  materi- 
alisations. Licked  Crookes's  t\atie  f\hig  into  a  cocked  hat. 
Well,  Vernon's  been  writing  about  it  all  over  the  place.  Says 
it  proves  that  there  is  a  form  of  matter  unknown  to  science,  and 
that  until  the  sceptics  has  e  disproved  that,  they  had  better  shut 
up  about  the  problem  of  immortality  and  so  on.  And  then  Har- 
rison came  out  with  a  leader  in  the  Supplement,  pooh-poohing 
the  whole  affair.  Clever  stuff,  of  course,  but  not  very  sound  on 
the  logical  side." 

"And  Vernon  wants  to  pin  him  down,  I  suppose?"  Fell 
commented  tepidly. 

He  wants  to  ha\e  a  straight  argumejit,"  Greatorcx  said, 
and  then  sinking  his  \oice  to  a  confidential  note,  he  continued, 
"And  ifyouaskme,  Fell,  Harrison's  ff/ra/V  of  spiritualism.  I'v? 


104  ^U.^^  AND  \VONUtR> 

seen  him  tackloil  before,  aiul  he  h^scs  his  temper.  He  tlocsn't 
vant  to  listen  !  "\'ou  know  the  look  that  comes  into  a  fellow's 
face  when  he's  shutting;  his  mind  against  you — a  sort  of  reso- 
lution and  concentrati<in  as  if  he'd  ^<)t  his  eye  on  his  own  ideal 
somewhere  in  the  middle  distance,  and  did  not  mean  to  look 
away  from  it.  .  .  "  He  paused  in  the  \ery  heart  of  his  account 
of  Harrison's  perversity,  suddenly  struck  bv  the  application  of 
his  description  to  tiic  present  expression  on  Fell's  face.  "Pretty 
much  the  look  you're  wearing  now,  in  fact,"  he  concluded 
drily.  "Sorr)-  if  I'v  e  been  boring  you." 

Fell  came  back  to  a  realisation  of  his  lapse  with  a  slight 
start.  "No,  no,  rather  not,  Greatorex,"  he  said.  "I  mean  it 
wasn't  that;  the  trutji  is  I'm  rather  worried.  I  was  thinking.  . 
.  .  "  he  waved  his  hand  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  the  sunset, 
and  added,  "That,  somehow,  made  mc  feel  as  if.  .  .  " 

Greatorex  thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  dinner- 
jacket  and  turned  round  to  observe  the  phenomenon  that  had 
distracted  Fell's  attention.  For  a  moment  his  prominent  nose 
and  rather  small  head  came  out  as  an  emphatic  silhouette  against 
the  afterglow  in  the  North-West;  and  to  Fell,  already  deep 
in  the  languors  of  sentiment,  presented  an  air  of  picturesque 
romance. 

Since  Fell  had  come  out  from  the  high-lights  and  conven- 
tional ijiflucnccs  of  the  house,  his  determination  had  begun  to 
give  way.  In  the  atmosphere  of  the  dining-room,  he  had  felt 
certain  that  he  would  be  right  in  doing  what  he  had  come  down 
here  expressly  to  do.  Phyllis  was  no  wife  for  a  Ci\il  Servant  in 
his  position.  He  had  seen  the  consequences  of  such  marriages 
in  the  Service.  They  kept  a  man  back.  If  he  married  her,  he 
would  lose  just  that  extra  fillip  of  influence  which  would  make 
the  difference  between  special  appointments  and  the  common 
routine  of  promotion  that  would  lca\  e  him  no  better  prospect 
than  an  ultimate  income  of  at  best  ten  or  twelve  hundred 
pounds  a  year.  One  could  not  expect  Lady  Ulrica,  for  ex- 
ample, to  continue  the  patronage  she  seemed,  at  present,  so 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  lO) 

Willing  to  lend  him,  if  he  made  a  marriage  of  that  kind.  He 
had  seen  it  all  so  clearl)'  while  they  were  at  dinner,  and  al- 
though his  heart  had  finilcd  him  at  the  thought  of  his  coming 
interview  with  Phyllis — she  was  so  sweet  and  so  gentle  and 
she  loved  him  with  such  an  amazing  singleness  and  rapture — 
he  had  been  sure  that  he  must  give  her  up  before  his  honour 
was  entangled. 

But  now  all  the  prestige  of  social  success,  everything  that 
was  represented  by  the  fashion  he  had  just  left,  was  dwindling 
and  fading;  the  effect  of  it  falling  away  so  that  it  seemed  to  him 
garish  and  unreal — as  the  lights  and  distractions  of  the  town 
may  seem  to  a  man  who  sets  his  face  eagerly  towards  the  joy 
of  his  quiet  home.  The  rest  and  immensity  of  nature  was  an 
enduring  reality  with  which  his  love  was  in  perfect  accord. 
He  and  Phyllis  had  their  place  in  it.  If  he  could  step  down, 
now,  to  the  sombre  yews  at  the  lake's  edge  and  take  her  in  his 
arms,  as  he  had  done  a  month  ago,  his  last  doubts  would  vanish 
on  the  instant.  They  would  be  one  with  the  greatness  of  earth, 
and  able  to  look  down  with  contempt  from  their  perfect  en- 
thronement, at  the  frivolous  and  ephemeral  superficiality  of 
conventional  life.  .  . 

The  sound  of  Grcatorex's  voice  seemed  to  take  up  the 
thread  of  his  dreams. 

"'Course,  you're  a  poet.  Fell,"  Grcatorcx  said.  "You  feel 
an  evening  like  this,  I  suppose?  Means  something  quite  tre- 
mendous to  you?" 

"You  see,"  Fell  began,  trembling  on  the  verge  of  confes- 
sion; "there  is  a  reason  why,  more  particularly,  to-night.  .  .  " 

Greatorex  turned  round  and  looked  at  him.  "I  shouldn't,'* 
he  said.  "You'll  be  sorry  afterwards.  Better  not  tell  me.  I 
know  I  look  romantic,  but  Fm  not.  Harrison  sa3's  I  ought  to 
havo  been  a  pirate.  He's  wrong,  I  ought  to  have  been  a  barris- 
ter. FU  tell  you,  now,  just  what  Fve  been  thinking  while  Fve 
been  looking  at  all  this  view  that  makes  you  feel  so  sentimen- 
tal, Fve  been  thinking  that  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  a  lake  so 


I  06  SIGNS  AND  WOKDF.RS 

near  the  house — uiilicalthy.  Aiul  I  don't  care  for  nil  those 
black,  yews,  cither.   Mclancholv,  nKuirnfui,  thin;j,s,'* 

Fell  sluulJercil.  "They  air  inouriirul,"  he  ni^rccd,  "hut 
the\  *re  in  kccpiiiLi." 

"Too  nuich,"  Grcaiorex  saiJ.  "I  don't  know  whcilur  it's 
yoursentiinental  influence  or  not,  Fell ;  hut,  il.iinn  it,  this  place 
makes  vir  feel  superNtitious,  to-ntii;ht.  It's  so  infernally  quiet 
and  hroodinir,  as  if  it  were  hatehinii  some  nasty  miseliief." 

"Or  some  wonderful  miraelcr"  Fell  suggested. 

"We  prohahl)  mean  thesame  thing, "Greatorex  saiil,  "Fv  c 
got  a  triek  of  using  prose  words  to  get  attention.  "Wonderful 
miracle,"  )0u  know,  wovdd  he  either  a  cliclie  or  bombast  in 
a  leader." 

Fell  did  not  appear  to  hear  this  explanation.  He  w.as  look- 
ing out  o\  er  the  swell  of  Orton  Park  that  was  separated  from 
Harrison's  garden  by  the  width  of  the  lake.  'Fhe  afterglow 
was  slowly  d\ing  and  the  greens  of  turf  and  wood  were  deep- 
ening ami  hardening  into  dark  masses  little  softer  than  the 
funereal  shadows  of  the  clustered  yews.  The  detail  that  had 
recently  started  into  almost  excessive  prominence  under  the 
level  light  of  the  scttingsim,  was  taking  refuge  in  the  temporary 
darkness  before  it  emerged  again  altered  in  shape  and  colour 
to  greet  the  masteries  of  the  moon.  Only  the  lake  still  shone 
fainti}',  reflecting  a  last  glimmer  of  brightness  in  the  Northern 
sky.  Near  the  island,  a  streamer  of  indigo  ripples  splayed  out 
to  mark  the  course  of  some  belated  water-bird,  hurrying  back 
to  the  cover  of  the  reeds;  and  in  the  hush  of  the  coming  night 
Fell  could  almost  belie\  e  that  he  heard  the  delicate  clash  and 
whisper  of  infinitely  tiny  waxes  breaking  in  hasty  processional 
upon  the  sandy  foreshore. 

"'Straordinarily  peaceful,"  nnirniuretl  Grcatorex.  "Sup- 
pose we  ought  to  be  joining  the  others:" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  we  ought,"  Fell  agreed  tamely.  What  else 
was  there  to  dor  He  could  not  go  down  to  the  \  illage  of  Long 
Orton  now,  and  beseech  Phyllis  to  come  out  and  walk  with 


TFIE  NIGHT  OF  CRF.ATrON  {dj 

him  b)'  the  lake.  And  without  her,  all  the  glory  of  this  amazing 
night  was  wasted. 

Nor  was  the  full  promise  of  the  night  yet  revealed  to  him; 
for  it  was  not  until  with  a  reluctant  sigh  he  had  turned  to  fol- 
low Greatorex  back  to  the  nearly  invisible  group  under  the 
cedar,  that  he  saw  the  Hunter's  moon,  a  great  disc  of  ruddy 
copper,  resting  as  it  seemed  on  the  very  edge  of  the  eastern 
horizon. 

He  lingered,  gazing,  for  a  few  seconds,  half  resolved  even 
now  to  escape  the  banalities  of  polite  conversation  on  the  lawn 
and  go  up  to  the  village.  This  was  such  a  rare  night  for  the 
silences  of  lo\e;  serene,  brooding  and  mystical.  Yet  the  auto- 
maton in  him,  the  formalised,  cultured  habit  of  the  Ci\il  Ser- 
vant, moved  him  relentlessly  back  towards  the  decencies  of 
polite  society  and  the  patronage  of  Ladv  Ulrica  More. 

As  he  silently  approached  the  group  on  the  lawn  he  heard 
the  clear,  musical  voice  of  Leslie  Vernon. 

"At  least  you  might  let  one  state  a  case,  Harrison,"  he  was 
saying. 


They  had  already  passed  the  stage  of  skirmishing  for  posi- 
tion, when  Greatorex  rejoined  them.  Something  had  appar- 
ently happened  to  Harrison  since  he  came  out  into  the  garden. 
He  had  lost  that  effect  of  impatience  which  had  underlain  all 
his  talk  of  Russia,  when,  as  though  afraid  of  silence,  he  had 
been  talking,  a  trifle  desperately,  against  some  latent  opposition. 

Now,  comfortably  relaxed  in  the  depth  of  a  well-designed 
basket  chair,  and  little  more  of  him  visible  than  the  gleam  of 
his  shirt  front,  the  pale  blur  of  his  face  and  the  occasional  glow 
of  his  cigarette  end,  he  had  an  air  of  being  tolerantly  compla- 
cent. It  seemed  that  he  was  willing  to  listen,  howc\cr  condes- 
cendingly, to  Vernon's  attack. 

"Look  here,  Harrison,"  Vernon  had  bcgim.  "\Vhy  won't 
you  talk  this  out,"' 


1  o8  SIGNS  AND  \V0NDF.R9 

"Nothing;;  fresh  to  s.i\  ,*'  Harrison  h;iJ  rcplicil. 

"Hut  /  ha\c,**  N'crnoii  continued;  and  then  Lady  Ulrica 
definitely  put  her  weiuht  into  the  scale  h)'  sayin;^,  "}{ow  fas- 
cinatinjz!  SomethiiiL:  realU'  new  in  the  v\a)-  ot'c\  ideiicer" 

"Or  only  a  rechauffeef"  Harrison  interpolated. 

"At  least  you  might  let  one  state  a  case,"  Vernon  said  as 
Greatorcx  joined  the  other  four  and  sat  ilown  with  a  tjrunt 
beside  his  wile. 

"We  saw  you  ;j;csticulatin^;:  picturesquely  aiiainst  the  sun- 
set, G.,"  Harrison  remarked,  as  though  he  would  c\en  now 
create  a  diversion  and  defer  the  discussion  indefinitely. 

Greatorcx  snorted;  quite  conscious  of  the  fact  that  i]i  Har- 
rison's presence  he  alwaj-s  pla\  cd  up  in  manner  to  that  part 
of  the  buccaneer  which  had  been  thruNt  upon  him,  although 
he  disclaimed  it  in  speech. 

"Been  discussing  the  efFect>  of  sunset  on  temperament," 
he  said. 

"But  did  you  sec  the  .Vloon  V  asked  Mrs.  Harrison,  rather 
in  the  tone  of  one  who  introduces  a  delightful  piece  of  scandal. 

"Afraid  I  missed  that,"  Greatorcx  said.  "I^ut  I  expect  Fell 
has  found  it.  He's  probably  worshipping  now." 

"Oh!  but  you  ought,"  Mrs.  fiarrison  ass.rtcii,  still  intent 
no  doubt,  on  keeping  away  from  the  subject  of  spiritualism, 
for  her  husband's  sake.  "It  was  like  a  rather  badly  done  stage 
moon  balanced  on  the  scenery.  Shan't  we  all  <:o  and  worship 
with  Mr.  Fell?" 

No  one  mo\cd,  however;  and  the  excuse  of  joining  Fell 
was  spoilt  by  his  arri\  al  at  the  cedar. 

"Do  help  yourself  to  coffee  and  anything  you  want,  Mr. 
Fell,"  Mrs.  Harrison  said.  "If  you  can  see,  that  is."  She  was 
certainly  doing  her  best  to  keep  the  con\  ersation  at  the  right 
after-diimer  level.  She  was  so  far  successful  that  for  a  minute 
or  two  little  spurts  of  irrelevant  talk  continued  to  start  up  and 
die  away  again,  like  the  uncertain  catspaws  of  wind  before  a 
flat  calm. 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  IO9 

It  was  Harrison  lilmself  who  at  last  anticipated  the  inevi- 
table. He  must  have  felt,  as  everyone  had — including  his 
plucky  but  finally  despairing  wife — that  it  was  inevitable. 
There  was  something  that  urged  them,  something  more  than 
that  quiet  determination  of  Vernon's,  although  his  very  silence 
conveyed  a  perpetual  sense  of  remonstrance.  But  this  other, 
greater  influence  was  with  them  as  an  almost  palpable  presence. 
It  was  like  a  force  exhausting  them  and  drawing  them  into  a 
common  focus. 

None  of  them  was  more  keenly  aware  of  it  than  Fell, 
though  he  attributed  the  weakness  that  was  overcoming  him 
to  a  particular  source.  For  here,  with  the  arm  of  his  chair  al- 
most touching  that  of  Lady  Ulrica's,  he  was  planning  an  in- 
terview with  Phyllis  that  held  no  least  hint  of  the  renunciation 
of  love.  He  was  giving  way  freely  and  without  reserve  to  his 
dream.  Moreover,  he  had  a  curious  sense  of  instant  accom- 
plishment, as  if  at  that  very  moment  his  spirit  and  the  spirit 
of  Phyllis  had  touched  and  coalesced.  He  was  drifting  into  far 
heights  of  remote  and  supernal  ecstasy,  when  the  thin,  high 
\oicc  of  Harrison  recalled  him  to  earth;  and  he  started  as 
though,  on  the  verge  of  sleep,  he  had  been  brutally  jarred  and 
awakened  by  the  \iolcnt  slamming  of  a  door* 

"Hml  hm!  Well,  Vernon,"  Harrison  said.  "We're  all 
waiting  for  that  statement  of  your  case/' 

Vernon'schair  creaked  slightly  as  if  lie  had  suddenly  leaned 
forward. 

This  moment  of  thcfr  beginning,  when  by  some  undivin- 
able  act  of  common  consent  all  oppositions  h.ad  been  tempor- 
arily relinquished  and  they  were  agreed  at  least  to  listen,  was, 
also,  the  moment  of  greatest  darkness.  Presently  the  moon 
transmuted  from  copper  to  brass  would  rise  above  the  house 
and  give  validity  and  form  to  all  that  was  now  being  created 
in  the  profundity  of  the  night.  But  when  Vernon  began  to 
speak,  he  was  hidden  from  them;  they  realised  him  only  as  a 
^■oice,  that  issued  with  a  steady  and  increasing  definition  out 


I  10  i^IONS  AND  WONDF.IIS 

of  the  siloncc  aiul  the  sli.ulows. 

He  t  ilkcil  wtll,  pK":ulm^  \\ith(nii  passion  lor  an  vmprcju- 
iliccil  cxaiuin.itioii  of  aW  tlu-  luw  'f;uts'  in  ps)cliieal  research. 
He  had  a  scliolarly  kiiowleil^e  of  his  siihject  anil  gave  his  in- 
stances aiul  avitliorities,  huiUhn^upasitseeined  to  Laily  Uhica, 
to  Fell,  ami  e\cn  to  Greatorex,  a  case  that  it  would  he  very 
harti  to  knock  down. 

Not  once  did  Harrison  interrupt  him,  anil  ilut  in^:;  Wrnon's 
occasional  pauses  the  immense  stillness  of  the  night  seemed  to 
close  in  upon  the  little  group  under  the  cedar  with  a  sudden 
intensit)'.  The  slender  stream  of  his  stcadv  speech  was  like  a 
little  candle,  hurning  delicately  in  the  darkness,  and  when  it 
wasextinguished,  his  listeners  were  freshU'  aware  of  themselves 
and  their  surroundings.  In  those  moments  of  almost  painful 
silence,  the^■  sought  to  recover  their  consciousness  of  the  fami- 
liar world  hy  restless  mo\emcnts  and  faint  articulations.  Chairs 
creaked,  someone  sighed,  and  once  Greatorex  rather  hrutally 
coughed. 

Nearly  at  the  eml  of  his  long  speech,  however,  Vernon's 
tone  became  more  emotional.  He  was  talking,  then,  of  materi- 
alisations and  of  the  strange  and  as  jet  unrecognised  form  of 
matter — pro\isionall\'  known  as  the  ectoplasm  or  teleplasm — 
that  i.>sucs  from  the  body  of  the  medium,  is  manifested  in  \  isible 
forms  that  can  be  successfully  photographed,  and  can  handle 
material  objects. 

"I  claim  that  the  existence  of  this  matter  is  proved,"  Ver- 
non concluded.  "Given  favourable  conditions,  the  medium 
can  build  up  a  form,  visible,  tangible,  ponderable  and  capable 
of  simulating  every  appearance  of  material  reality.  I  don't  say 
that  this  amazing  phenomenon  pro\es  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  but  I  do  s;iy  that  until  )ou  produce  another  hypothesis  to 
cover  the  immense  accumulation  of  tested  facts,  you  have  no 
right  to  pronounce  any  opinion  in  psychical  research." 

By  this  time  the  moon,  now  pale  as  scoured  brass,  had 
topped  the  trees  behind  tlie  house,  and  was  sending  out  pale 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  1 1  1 

and  slender  shafts  of  liglit  to  pierce  here  and  there  the  over- 
sliadowing  gloom  of  the  wide  cedar:  one  shaft  had  dappled  the 
statuesque  bare  shoulder  of  Lady  Ulrica,  and  another  had  slan- 
ted down  upon  the  smooth  fair  hair  of  Leslie  V^ernon.  And  by 
such  reflections  and  by  other  sources  of  faint  diffusion,  the 
heavy  brooding  darkness  that  had  so  far  enveloped  the  group 
on  tlie  lawn,  had  been  definitely  lifted.  Dimly  tiiey  could  see 
each  other,  either  as  shadows  against  the  increasing  brightness 
beyond,  or  as  weakly  illuminated  figures  picked  out,  maybe, 
by  a  brilliant  little  spark  of  moonshine  that  had  pierced  its  way 
through  some  common  openijig  in  the  many-storied  foliage 
above. 

And  although  there  had  come  no  least  stir  of  wind  to  break 
the  intense  calm,  the  releasing  effect  of  the  light  was  manifest 
upon  the  spirits  of  the  party.  As  Vernon  ceased  speaking  e\'ery- 
one  suddenly  wanted  to  talk.  A  little  fusillade  of  chatter  broke 
out,  which  only  gave  way  when  Greatorcx  was  heard  saying: 
"If  he  believe  not  Stainton  Moses  and  the  Lodges,  neither  will 
he  believe  though  one  rose  from  the  dead." 

Mrs.  Harrison  laughed  brightly.  "We  must  remember 
that,"  she  said. 

"But  it's  not  a  question  of  rising  from  the  dead  at  all,  Mr. 
Greatorcx,"  Ladv  Ulrica  put  in.  She  had  no  sense  of  humour. 

Vernon  apparently  felt  that  all  the  effect  of  his  long  argu- 
ment was  being  foolishly  dissipated  by  this  absurd  interruption. 
"Well,  Harrison,  what's  your  answer  to  my  case?"  he  asked 
in  a  slightly  raised  voice. 

Harrison  began  tostammcr,  a  sure  sign  that  his  temper  was 
at  last  beginning  to  conquer  him.  "I — I  can't  see,  even  if  we 
admit  the  \alidity  of  these  materialisations,"  he  said,  "that  you 
— you  arc  any  nearer  to  proving  your  general  case,  Vernon. 
I'v  c  bce?i  into  the  whole  question  \  ery  tlioroughly  and — and 
impartially,  and  I  can  only  say  that  I  see  no  reason  whatever 
to  assume  that  we  have  ever  recei\  ed  any  communication  from 
the  spirits  of  the  dead,  I  think  that  that  is  the  real  point  ujider 


I  I  2  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

discu>«sioM,  aiul  I  can't  sec  that  you've  done  nuK  l\  to  support 
)our  contention.  What  d'vou  s;iv,  G.?" 

Cjieatorex  irrunted.  A  beam  ot  inoonlij^ht  h;ul  just  cau|^ht 
the  most  sahcnt  ot  his  features,  auil  at  the  moment  his  face  ap- 
peared to  he  all  nose. 

"^  ou  won't  accept  m\'  explanation  of  the  facts,  Harrison  r" 
Vernon  persisted. 

"I  —  I  don't  see  why  I  should,"  HarriM)n  replied.  "I  don't 
sec  the  necessity  for  it.  I — I'm  not  convinced,  by  any  means, 
of  the  validity  of  your  examples.  At  present,  I  am  content  to 
go  on  with  the  enquiry  without  formulating  any  theory.  I  con- 
tend that  the  evidence  up  to  the  present  time  is  insufficient  to 
theorise  upon." 

"Ah !  well,  there's  a  lot  more  coming,"  Vernon  replied, 
and  for  the  first  time  a  real  note  of  passion  crept  into  his  voice. 
"Don't  \  ou  realise  that  all  these  developments  taken  together 
are  just  the  first  stages  of  the  knowledge  that  is  coming  to  us? 
They  ares)  mptoms,  that'salljof  the  new  trend  in  the  evolution 
of  mankind;  of  the  coming  of  the  new  age — the  age  of  the 
Spirit.  The  days  of  materialism  are  nearly  spent,  and  the  next 
generation  will  smile  at  our  feeble  tentatis  es. 

"Do  )ou  ask  me  how  I  know?  Well,  I  can't  tell  you  in 
terms  that  you  can  understand.  The  best  part  of  my  know- 
ledge is  intuitional,  but  intuition,  even  mysticism,  must  no 
longer  be  di\orced  from  science  and  intellect.  That,  I  feel,  is 
the  essential  synthesis  of  the  new  doctrine.  Wc  are  going  to 
produce  our  material  proofs;  in  the  future  religion  and  science 
will  become  one." 

"My  own  opinion,  precisely,"  said  Lady  Ulrica. 

But  V^crnon's  homily  had  proved  a  little  too  much  for 
Harrison.  He  tried  to  speak  and  could  not  control  the  pitch  of 
his  voice,  which  soared  incfFcctively  to  a  falsetto  squeak. 

"Er — er — I — I.  ,  .  "  he  began,  and  had  to  get  to  his  feet 
before  he  could  attain  coherence.  Then  he  started  again  with 
"No,  no!   It's  incredible  nonsense  that — the  kind  of  religion 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  I  I  j 

foreshadowed  by  spiritualism — could  ever  appeal  to  sensible 
men  and  women.  Are  we  to  be  expected  to  listen  to  the  drivel- 
ling platitudes  of  some  supposed  spirit  communicating  through 
an  illiterate  old  woman  with  the  further  interposition  of  a  "con- 
trol," speaking  pigeon  English  and  imitating  the  worst  soph- 
istications of  a  spoilt  child?  No,  no,  positively  I  can't  fake  that 
kind  of  nonsense  seriously.  I — I  have  no  sort  of  desire  to  imitate 
the  credulity  of  Lodge,  Barrett  and  Crookes — no  sort  of  desire. 
I — I — it's  absurd.  V\c  no  patience  even  to  talk  about  it.  Who 
is  coming  to  look  at  the  moon  r"  And  without  waiting  to  re- 
ceive any  response  to  his  invitation,  he  turned  his  back  on  the 
cedar  and  strode  out,  a  perturbed  and  impatient  little  figure, 
into  the  light  of  the  open  garden. 

The  other  six  followed  him  in  a  straggling  procession. 

Emma  Harrison  was  obviously  relieved  that  the  discussion 
was  at  an  end.  "I  said  it  would  only  end  in  recriminations," 
she  explained  to  Greatorex,  who  looked  about  seven  feet  high 
in  contrast  with  her  diminutive  slenderness.  "Charles  never 
can  keep  his  temper  about  that  subject.  And  I  did  think  it  was 
very  splendid  of  him  to  keep  it  as  long  as  he  did.  We  can't  do 
with  all  that  nonsense.  Can  you,  Mr.  Greatorex  r" 

Mrs.  Harrison  dropped  her  voice  to  an  indiscreet  confi- 
dence. "I  always  think  that  our  poor  dear  Lady  Ulrica,"  she 
whispered,  "is  so  very  much  the  type  from  which  mediums  are 
made.  You  know,  stout,  placid,  and  not  too  clever." 

"Queer  thing  why  mediums  should  generally  be  so  stu- 
pid," commented  Greatorex,  tactfully  avoiding  any  overt 
agreement  with  his  hostess's  description  of  Lady  Ulrica. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  party  drifted  about  the  lawn  in 
couples,  with  the  exception  of  Harrison,  who  maintaining  a 
little  distance  from  the  others  was  pacing  restlessly  up  and 
down,  either  working  off  his  spleen  or  thinking  out  some  really 
telling  retort  that  should  settle  Vernon's  business  once  and  for 
all. 

The  moon  was  now  high  in  the  hca\  ens,  but  it  had  suffered 

H 


1  I  4  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

another  transmutation.  A  faint  screen  of  misty  cirrus  liaJ  crept 
over  the  sky,  and  the  brass  was  toned  down  ahnost  to  the  white- 
ness of  sihcr.  And  with  this  chani^e,  the  light  in  the  garden 
had  become  more  ditVuscd.  The  shadows  had  lost  their  hardness, 
the  high-lights  their  accentuation. 

And  by  degrees,  some  sense  of  a  peculiar  quality  in  the 
night  began  to  aft'ect  every  member  of  the  little  party  on  the 
lawn.  They  began  b)'  almost  imperceptible  changes  in  their 
movements  to  drift  together  into  a  little  knot,  like  the  swinw 
ming  bubbles  in  a  cup.  The  area  of  their  promenade  dimin- 
ished until  even  Harrison  himself  had  come  into  the  focus; 
nnd  yet  when  they  had  again  drawn  into  a  group  they  had 
lunhing  to  sa\'  to  one  anotiier.  It  is  true  that  they  were  still 
conscious  of  a  slight  social  constraint,  due  to  what  had  amoun- 
ted to  a  quarrel  between  the  host  and  one  of  iiis  guests.  But 
there  wassomctJiingin  their  attitude  and  their  common  move- 
ment towards  each  other  that  suggested  j.omc  deeper  cause  for 
their  momentary  awkwardness.  It  was  as  if  each  of  them  was 
aware  of  some  sudden  fear,  and  hesitated  to  speak  lest  the 
shameful  fact  should  be  revealed. 

It  was  Mrs.  Harrison  who  first  broke  a  silence  that  was 
becoming  altogether  too  insistent — c\  en  the  soft  hush  of  their 
feet  upon  the  grass  had  ceased.  She  laughed  artificially,  with 
a  touch  as  it  seemed  of  hra\ado,  a  laugh  that  might  ha\e  dis- 
gvn'scd  a  shudder. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  seems  to  )()u,"  she  said  in  a  high 
strained  \oicc,  "but  it  strikes  me  tliat  it's  actually  gettinga  little 
chilly." 

"Yes,  yes.  It  i>>,  Emma,"  her  husband  replied  with  an  ef- 
fect of  relief.  "1 — I  think  we'd  better  go  in.  VVe  get  a  cold  air 
off  the  lake,  now  and  again,"  he  explained  to  the  company  at 
large. 

"Precious  little  air,  Harrison,"  muttered  Grcatorex.  '•'Wa 
never  known  a  stiller  night." 

"Haze  come  o\  er  the  moon,"  commented  Fell,  staring  up 


THE  NIGHT  OF  -CREATION  I  I  5 

into  the  sky. 

"It  lias  certainly  turned  colder,"  remarked  Lady  Ulrica 
with  a  shiver;  "much  colder." 

Harrison  cleared  his  throat  and  made  his  usual  effort  to  get 
his  pitch.  "Hm!  Hm  !  Perhaps  we're  going  to  get  some  phe- 
nomena," he  said  with  a  slightly  cracked  laugh.  "Always  the 
first  warning,  isn't  it,  Vernon,  a  draught  of  cold  air  r" 

"Always,"  Lad}'  Ulrica  said  solemnly,  before  Vernon 
could  reph'. 

Harrison  was  about  to  speak  again  when  Greatorex  cut  in. 
"I  say,"  he  said,  in  a  \oice  that  iicld  a  just  perceptible  note  of 
excitement,  "is  that  one  of  your  maids  down  there  by  the  lake? 
Girl  in  white;  moving  about  by  tjie  ycwsr" 

"What  (h  you  meanr"  Mrs.  Harrison  replied,  speaking 
with  a  little  flurry  of  haste,  "It  must  be  after  eleven,  and  the 
maids  are  in  bed  long  ago,  I  hope." 

"Someone  down  there,  anyway,"  Greatorex  asserted. 

"Hm,  hm  !  G.'s  quite  right,  my  dear,"  Harrison  said.  "I 
— I  think  we  ought  to  in^'cstigate  this  in  the  cause  of  common 
morality." 

"Charles?  It  may  be  one  of  the  village  girls,"  his  wife  sug- 
gested. 

"In  which  case  she  has  no  business  in  our  paddock  at  mid- 
night," Harrison  replied,  ajid  as  he  spoke  he  began  to  walk 
with  an  air  of  mechanical  determination  towards  the  steps  in 
the  sunk  fence  that  led  to  the  meadow. 

"Shall  we  all  go?"  Greatorex  asked,  but  Mrs.  Harrison 
manifestly  hesitated. 

"I  don't  know.  Do  you  think,  perhaps.  .  .  .  "she  began. 

Greatorex,  however,  had  not  waited  for  her  permission, 
and  in  half  a  dozen  strides  he  too  had  reached  the  meadow. 
Vernon,  Lady  Ulrica  and  Mrs,  Greatorex  followed  him  with 
an  effect  of  yielding  to  a  sudden  impulse,  and  Kmma  foiuid 
herself  alone  on  the  lawn  with  Robert  Fell. 

"Well,  if  they're  all  going,"  she  said  with  a  little  hysterical 


I  I  6  SIGN^  AND  WONDERS 

laugh,  "I  suppose  wc  nia\  ;is  will  go,  too." 

"I  iloii'i  know.  ^\n.  Do  you  tliiiik  wc  ou-ilitr"  Fi-ll  rc- 
plicil  in  :\  str.inmU  a^itatcil  \()iic. 

Mrs.  Harrison  turiu'd  to  look  at  )»iin  with  a  little  start  of 
surprise.  "Surelv  you're  not  afraid :"  she  asked,  unconsciously 
rc\  ealing  the  cause  of  her  own  reluctance. 

".'\fraid:"  he  echoeil,  entireh'  niisunderstandin;_'  her  true 
intention.  *'Afraid  of  what  r" 

i'Well— ghosts!"  she  said. 

"But  AiHi  don't  realh'  ini.iLiine,  Mr^.  Harrison.  .  .  "  Fell 
began. 

"Not  for  one  moinent,"  she  said  with  determination.  She 
was  disturbed  and  a  triHe  shocked  by  the  marks  of  his  agitation, 
which  had  nexertheless  stiffened  her  own  courage.  She  was 
prepared  now  to  demonstrate  how  little  she  cared  for  an  unex- 
pected colilrjcss  in  tlie  air,  or  for  white  figures  mo\  ing  about 
at  the  most  uidikel\'  hours  on  the  borders  of  the  lake. 

Already  the  shadows  of  the  other  fi\e  were  stringing  out 
across  the  meadow,  all  of  them  clearly  visible  in  the  milky  light 
of  the  thinly  veiled  moon.  They  were  mo\  ing  \  ery  deliber- 
ately; but  a  certain  deliberation  of  approach  was  only  decent 
if  they  expected  to  disturb  a  tr)  st. 

"Well,  aren't  \ou  cominff,  Mr.  Fell :"  Emma  asked  sharp- 

He  sighed  and  then,  "Yes,  FU  come,"  he  said,  in  tjie  tone 
of  one  who  finalh'  commits  himself. 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  I  I  7 

PART  2  :  THE  APPEARANCE 

I 

Harrison  and  Fell  were  within  a  few  yards  of  the  planta- 
tion, when  the  \'ague  pillar  of  illusive  whiteness  that  flitted  in 
the  shadow  of  the  trees  moved  towards  them,  and,  after  the 
slight  hesitation  of  one  who  dreads  to  plunge,  stepped  ijito  the 
moonlight.  Kut  having  thus  dared  the  shock  of  immersion,  it 
seemed  that  for  the  moment  her  strength  could  carry  her  no 
further.  She  stood  motionless  and  with  an  effect  of  strained  ef- 
fort, on  the  shadow,  her  eyes  downcast  and  her  crossed  hands 
grasping  the  ends  of  the  tulle  scarf  that  draped  her  head  and 
shoulders. 

In  that  stitTposc,  with  the  rigid  lines  of  lier  figure  delivered 
milk-white  against  the  sullen  background  of  the  yews,  she 
looked  less  like  a  human  being  than  the  rather  conventional 
image  of  some  idealised  virgin,  the  expression  of  a  dream, 
modelled  none  too  definitely  in  wax  by  an  artist  whose  recol- 
lection of  his  vision  was  already  fading. 

Harrison  stopped  short  and  laid  his  hand  on  Fell's  arm. 
"Who  is  itr"  he  asked  him.  It  was  manifestly  an  absurd  ques- 
tion to  put  to  his  companion,  a  stranger  in  Long  Orton;  but 
in  the  first  agitation  of  the  discovery  Harrison  clutched  at  the 
nearest  support. 

"No  idea !"  Fell  replied.  He  was  suddenly  disappointed  and 
downcast.  This  girl,  whoever  she  might  be,  was  certainly  not 
Phyllis,and  all  the  furious  expectations  and  fine  rcsoh'csthathad 
wonderfully  lighted  him  had  been  quenched  with  an  abruptness 
that  left  him  listless  and  momentarily  devoid  ofcuriosity. 

"Who  is  it:"  repeated  Greatorex,  who  had  been  only  a 
pace  or  two  behind  them.  He  spoke  in  the  tone  a  man  might 
use  while  surreptitiously  addressing  his  neighbour  during  a 
church-service.  This  echo  of  his  owji  question  seemed  to  annoy 
Harrison.  He  slirugged  his  shoulders  contemptuously,  and 
turning  round  addressed  his  wife  in  a  voice  that  was  unneces- 
sarily strident. 


iiS 


SU;N  .    \M)  \\  I  iNDl  KS 


"Merc's  a  ni)  stcrious  lady  como  M  call  upon  us,  Emma," 
he  siiiil. 

And  tlicM  Mis.  H.irrisoii,  gigi^liiig  nervously,  put  the  es- 
sential but  nianite^rl\-  hopeless  question  for  the  thirti  time. 

"W'lio  is  she  .'"she  .nsked,  in  an  undertone. 

Harrison  may  ha\e  lioped  that  the  shoek  of  l\is  voice,  and, 
perhaps,  of  his  determinedly  sceptical  attitude,  would  have  ex- 
orcised the  phantom  that  was  assuredly,  so  he  had  already  de- 
cided, the  creation  of  n  moment's  excited  ima;^:ination.  Hut 
when  he  turned  hack  to  face  the  plantatitMi,  the  pale  fijzure  still 
stood  in  the  same  attitude,  and  seemed  now,  moreover,  to  have 
attained  a  sharper  definition  of  outline;  to  be  altOL'ether  more 
human  and  solid. 

*'I^v  Io\ e,  )ou  know,  it  /.<  someone,  after  all,"  Harrison 
murmured. 

"C^h!  it  />  someone,  rii^ht  enough,"  Fell  said,  at  present 
concerned  only  with  the  fact  that  it  was  not  the  rij^lit  someone. 

"Oil  I  Well!"  Harrison  softly  ejaculateil,  as  one  who  braces 
himself  to  an  encounter. 

He  stepped  forward  a  couple  of  paces  with  a  slightly  gro- 
tesque air  of  greeting.  "Hinl  Inn!  I  don't  quite  know.  .  .  .  " 
he  said;  "that  is,  might  I  ask  whom  wc  ha\  c  the  plc.isurc  of — 
of  meeting  so  uncxpcctedl):" 

The  frozen  intensit)'  of  the  silence  that  appeared  to  follow 
his  question  may  ha\  c  been  due  to  the  fact  that  each  member 
of  the  partv  was  holding  his  or  her  breath  in  the  expect  ition 
of  the  moment. 

The  figure  mo\cd.  Slowl\  and  with  an  almost  painful  de- 
liberation she  released  the  ends  of  the  tulle  scarf  tliat  was  about 
her  head  and  shoulders,  and  let  her  hands  fall  to  her  sides.  Her 
mouth  opened,  but  she  did  not  speak;  and  after  what  might 
have  been  another  efFcjrt  to  reply — a  just  perceptible  movement 
of  the  head — she  took  a  careful  step  backward,  entering  again 
the  shadow  of  the  yews. 

"But,  I  say,  you  know.  ..."  Harrison  began. 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  I  I  9 

She  interrupted  liim  with  a  gesture,  raisijig  her  hand  and 
pointing  with  an  unmistakcable  certainty  at  Lad)'  UhMca.  And 
the  iiand  and  forearm  tliat  by  tliis  gesture  she  once  more  plun- 
ged into  the  moonlight  had  somctliing  the  appearance  of  opal- 
escent glass. 

Harrison,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  house-part}',  did 
not  understand  this  indication  and  turned  liis  head  to  see  who 
or  what  had  been  selected  for  peculiar  notice;  but  Lady  Ulrica 
responded  with  a  fine  dignit)'.  She  came  forward  past  Harrison 
right  up  to  the  cdiie  of  tiie  yews,  and  said  in  a  \oice  that  did 
credit  to  her  breeding: 

"My  dear,  what  is  it:  Can  1  help  you  in  any  wayr" 

And  then,  no  doubt  to  the  infinite  relief  of  the  Harrisons, 
the  unknown  replied.  She  had  a  little  husky  voice  when  she 
first  spoke,  a  \oice  that  suggested  the  last  sleepy  clutter  of  roost- 
ing birds;  and  her  speech  came  with  an  appearance  of  effort. 

"Presently,"  she  said  rather  indistinctly,  and  added  some- 
thing that  sounded  like  "more  strength." 

Lady  Ulrica  was  painfully  short-siglitcd.  She  had  those 
large,  protuberant  brown  eyes,  almost  devoid  of  expression, 
that  are  sometimes  indicati\e  of  heart  trouble.  And  as  she  an- 
swered, she  was  fumbling  at  her  breast  for  the  impressi\'e, 
handled  lorgnette  that  was  discovered  later  on  the  coffee  table 
under  the  cedar. 

"We  weren't  quite  sure,  you  know,"  she  said  in  her  auth- 
oritatixe  contralto;  "wliether  you  were  an  apparition  or  not, 
and  so  we  came  to  see.  But,  of  course,  now  we  have  seen  you 
and  heard  you  speak,  we  shall  be  delighted  to  help  you  if  you 
want  help,  or — if  you'd  prefer  it — to  go  away." 

"Stay  near  me,"  the  stranger  said  in  a  clearer  voice,  and 
striking  a  lower  pitch  than  when  she  had  spoken  first.  "Till  I 
get  more  strength." 

The  rest  of  the  party  had  paused  in  a  little  knot,  some  six 
or  seven  feet  away,  while  this  brief  conversation  had  gone  for- 
ward, listening  staring  with  an  absorption  that  in  other  cir- 


i:o  ^ir.Nj  AND  \\'0SI>1  k. 

cuin>t.iiicos  mi^lit  li;i\c  been  iiuli;ctl  assliiihtly  lacking;  in  gooil 
taste.  Hut  no\v,s(Mne  kinil  of  r(.aliN;itiorj  of  tlKirattifiulcsccnicd 
to  come  to  tlum,  aiul  the)  di\ cited  their  attention  by  a  niaiu- 
test  efti»rt  from  the  two  people  on  the  edge  of  the  plant  ition 
and  began  to  i.ilk  in  low  \oices  among  themschcs. 

Mrs.  Harri>on,  mo\ing  acro>N  to  her  hu>baMd,  loi>kcil  ;.t 
him  with  raiscil  eyebrows,  silently  a>king  the  oin  ious  ijiicstion. 

"Kr.iud,"  lie  s.iid  in  a  eareJul  undertone,  ami  added  rather 
more  \iciousl\,  "Hoax  of  some  kind." 

Mrs.  Harrison,  however,  was  not  to  be  rcbufll-d  so  easih. 
"But,  Charles,"  she  s;ud  with  a  slight  urg>.iic\ ,  as  if  she  would 
persuade  him  to  be  re.isonable;  "don't  )  ou  think  there  is  some- 
thing very  5/-W  about  hcrr  As  if  she  were  not  quite  sane:  That 
pose  of  the  Virgin  Mary  when  she  was  in  the  moonlight  as 
we  came  up:  And  did  you  notice  that  she's  wearing  quite  the 
commonest  sort  of  tulle  scarf:" 

"Yes,  I'd  noticed  that,"  he  began,  and  then  their  attention 
was  snatched  back  to  their  strange  \  isitor  by  the  sound  of  a 
laugh.  It  was  a  clear,  high  laugh,  but  just  too  near  the  edge  of 
emotion  fur  a  person  under  suspicion  of  madness. 

"I  must  see  to  this,"  Harrison  murmured  to  his  wife,  and 
took  a  few  steps  towards  Lady  Ulrica  and  the  m)'Stcrious  \  isitor. 
He  was  a  connoisseur  of  feminine  beauty,  and  he  had  been 
struck  b\-  what  he  mentally  termed  the  "exquisite  accuracy" 
of  the  profile  presented  to  him.  It  had  come  clear  and  sharp 
against  the  background  of  the  plantation,  white  and  vivid  in 
the  moonlight;  a  forehead  in  a  vertical  line  over  the  delicately 
rounded  chin,  a  perfectly  curved  aquiline  nose  and  the  sugges- 
tion of  a  fine,  sensitiv  e  moutli.  Harrison  saw  it  as  the  considered 
and  patient  modelling  of  some  idealised  profile  in  a  cameo.  It 
was  a  type  that  he  v  ery  greatly  admired;  and  tin's  sight  of  her 
beauty  perhaps  softened  the  asperity  of  the  cross-examination 
he  had  intended. 

He  came  within  a  few  feet  of  her  as  he  began  to  speak, 
but  she  was  still  within  the  black  shadow  of  the  trees  and  he 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  121 

could  110  longer  tlistinguish  her  features. 

"We — we  are  rather  at  a  loss,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he 
said.  "You  understand,  I  hope,  that  if  you  find  yourself  in  any 
pcrplexit)',  my  wife  will  be  delighted  to  oflFer  you  our  hospi- 
tality." 

Instead  of  answering  him  she  put  out  her  hand  towards 
Lady  Ulrica,  but  when  that  lad)'  made  a  responsive  movement, 
tlic  stranger  shrank  awa\'  again. 

"They  don't  help  me,"  she  murmured.  An  undercurrent 
of  agitation  was  coming  into  her  speech,  and  began  to  domi- 
nate it  as  she  continued,  more  hurriedly;  "I  can't  help  it,  if 
they  won't  beliexe  me.  They're  antag — antago — tell  them  to 
be  still — in  their  thoughts — in  their.  .  .  ." 

Her  \oice  died  out,  fluttering  down  through  the  original 
quality  of  huskiness  that  had  first  distinguished  it,  to  a  hoarse, 
diminishing  whisper.  And  it  seemed  at  the  same  moment  as  if 
she  also  were  stealthily  retreating,  sliding  away  from  tliem. 

"Lookout!  She's  going!"  Harrison  cried  out.  "Wc  mustn't 
let  her  get  away  like  this.  She's — she's  not  safe  to  be  left  alone. 
Wc  must  catch  her." 

But  already  the  stranger  was  nearly  out  of  sight.  For  an 
instant  they  saw  her  through  the  darkness,  as  an  illusive  pillar 
of  faint  liiiht  ^leamins:  amoniz;  the  profoimd  shadows  of  the 

O  O  O  O  l^ 

yews;  a  pale  uncertain  form  that  vanislied  even  as  they  started 
in  pursuit. 

"I'm  going  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  this,"  Harrison  announ- 
ced with  determination  as  he  led  the  search. 

Yet,  from  the  very  outset,  that  search  was  the  most  per- 
functory and  futile  affair.  The  members  of  the  party,  two  of 
whom  stayed  behind,  exliibited  a  luarked  inclination  not  to 
separate.  Outside,  in  the  security  of  the  moonlight  and  cacli 
other's  society,  they  had  suffered  mystification,  wonder,  perhaps 
an  occasional  thrill  of  apprehension,  but  not  that  peculiar  qual- 
ity of  fear  that  lay  in  wait  for  them  the  moment  they  entered 
the  gloom  of  the  plantation. 


I  1 1  SIGNS  AND  WONDFRS 


K\on  Grciitorcx  felt  that  iiiHucuco.  He  liad  tolK)\vcd  his 
h«>st,  in  aihanccof  tIiLM)thcr  three,  hut  hist  si;:ht  ot  him  directly 
he  entered  the  eo\  cr  (if  the  trees.  He  started  \  iolentlv  when  a 
twi^  hrushcd  his  lace,  and  then,  with  a  Jii>t  perceptible  note 
ot' alarm  in  his  \oicc,  called  out: 

"Hallo,  Harrison!  You  there:  It's  so  infernal!)  dark!" 

Harrison  answered  him  with  a  remarkable  promptitude. 

"Hallo,  G.!'*  he  s.iid.  "That  \ ou'  I'm  close  here!  I'll  wait 
for  vou." 

They  were  as  a  matter  of"  fact  scpar.iteil  only  by  the  spreaii 
of' a  sinj^lc  )  ew. 

"Don't  see  tliat  wc  stand  mucli  chance  oi'  catchin^i  the 
hulv  in  a  place  like  this,  Harrison,"  Greatorcx  remarked  when 
they  had  joined  compan'/.  "You  might  hide  a  platoon  under 
these  trees  in  this  light,  what:" 

"Only  a  narrow  belt  of  it,'*  H;irrison  replied.  "We'll  he 
through  on  to  the  shore  of  the  lake  in  ten  ^•ards.  Wc  can  see 
her  then  for  half  a  mile  if  she's  come  out." 

"All  right,"  Greatorex  agreed,  and  added  in  a  mood  of 
sudden  confidence;  "Beastly  weird  sort  of  place,  this,  but  it's 
been  a  weird  sort  of  affair  altogether." 

"Mad  woman,"  commented  Harrison  with  a  touch  of  \e- 
hemcnce. 

"Queer,  ccrtaiidy,"  Greatorcx  agreed.  "But  wh\-  did  you 
say  hoax,  iust  now?  You  don't  think  that.  .  .  .  :" 

They  had  been  talking  in  interrupted  snatches  as  they 
pressed  their  way,  keeping  close  together,  through  the  stubborn 
resistance  of  the  yews,  but  as  Grcatorex's  sentence  tailed  away 
with  a  suggestion  of  cutting  off  his  own  suspicions,  they  came 
out  on  to  the  long  grass  that  bordered  the  lake. 

Harrison  stopped,  and  gave  a  sigh  that  may  hr.ve  indicated 
his  relief  at  getting  clear  from  the  intriguing  opposition  of  the 
plantation. 

Before  them  w.is  spread  the  placid  deep  of  the  bhck  water, 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CRF.ATION  I  23 

SO  calm  nnd  rigid  that  it  looked  like  a  sheet  of  uiisoiled  and 
faintly  lustrous  ice.  To  the  right  and  left  of  them  the  bank  ran 
in  a  flat  cur\e,  in  full  sight  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  each  way, 
sa\'e  that  it  was  bordered  by  an  uneven  selvage  of  impenetrable 
black  shadow.  But  nowhere  was  there  any  sign  of  a  flitting 
white  shape,  escaping  from  tlie  charges  of  hoax  or  insanity 
that  had  been  brought  against  it. 

"Either  got  away  or  hiding  in  the  plantation,"  remarked 
Greatorex,  after  a  pause  during  winch  with  a  suggestion  of 
breathless  eagerness  the  two  men  had  searched  the  moonlit  dis- 
tances. The  wreath  of  cirrus  had  cleared  away  now,  and  the 
moon  had  reached  the  perfect  gold  of  its  ultimate  splendour. 

"Hm!"  Harrison  replied  thoughtfully.  "Not  much  good 
searching  the  plantation." 

"Might  as  well  hunt  for  a  louse  in  a  woodstack,"  Great- 
orex thought. 

"What  did  you  make  of  it,  G.r"  Harrison  asked  suddcnh'. 

"Mighty  queer  business  altogether,"  Greatorex  replied. 
And  then  with  a  sudden  drop  in  his  voice,  he  added  on  a  note 
of  alarm,  "What  the  devil  is  that  you've  got  on  your  back, 
Harrison?" 

"Ehr  What:  What  d'you  mcanr"  Harrison  asked  ner- 
\'ously. 

Greatorex  took  a  step  towards  him,  and  after  a  moment's 
pause  in  which  lie  hesitated  as  if  afraid  to  touch  some  uncanny 
thing,  laid  hold  of  a  long  wisp  of  drapery  and  stripped  it  from 
his  host's  back  and  shoulders.  It  seemed  to  Greatorex  that  the 
flimsy  thing  clung  slightly  to  the  smooth  cloth  of  the  dinner 
jacket. 

"What  is  itr  What  is  it  "'asked  Harrison  impatiently. 

"Looks  like  that  scarf  the  apparition  was  wearing,"  Great- 
orex remarked,  displaying  it. 

Harrison  clutched  at  it  eagerly. 

"By  Jove,  so  it  is!"  he  said;  "tangible  proof,  this,  G.,  of 
the  lady's  substantiality.  Good,  solid  evidence  of  fact.  They 


I  :4  su,.\s  .wo  WONDFRS 

must  all  li.nc  seen  it.  Knima  even  nKiitioncil  it  to  inc  as  bcin^ 
t»f  rather  comiUDn  material. "  As  he  spoke  he  was  finj^erini^  the 
>tuft'  of  the  scarf;  running  it  throuLjh  his  hands,  as  if  he  found 
an  almost  sensual  pleasure  in  the  rcassurinij  (juaUtN'  of  its  un- 
iloubteil  substance. 

"Why,  of  course,"  Greatorcx  answered,  httle  less  relieved 
th.ui  liis  companion;  but  anxious,  now,  to  pro\e  that  he  had 
never  for  one  instant  been  under  anv  delusion  as  to  the  nature 
of  the  apparition.  "You  never  thouizht,  did  )du,  that  the  lady 
wasanhost:"  His  laugh  as  he  asked  the  question  had  a  slightly 
insincere  ring,  but  Harrison  was  too  prco::cupied  with  his  own 
thoughts  to  notice  that. 

"A  ghost!  My  dear  G.!"  he  said.  "The  ghost  of  what,  in 
Heaven's  name?  No,  no,  she  was  solid  enough.  Kut  what's 
pu/./lfng  me  is  whether  she  was  insane,  or  whether,  as  seems 
to  me  more  probable,  the  whole  thing  wasa  hoax  of  some  kind." 

"You  don't  suggest  that  Vernon,  or  Lady  Ulrica.  ..." 
Grcatorex  began,  but  Harrison  cut  him  short. 

"No,  certainly  not,"  he  said.  "They  would  not  be  so  silly. 
It  waj.  iust  a  coincidence  that  we  should  ha\  e  been  discussing 
all  this  foolishness  beforehand.  No,  there  are  thousands  of  de- 
luded idiots  about,  of  one  sort  or  another,  who  have  gone  mad 
on  tin's  spiritualism  business,  and  I  think  the  most  probable  ex- 
planation is  that  some  week-end  \isitor  at  the  hotel — wc'\e 
got  quite  a  decent  hotel  in  the  village,  you  know,  kept  by  a 
fellow  called  Messenger — some  woman  or  other,  a  little  crack- 
ed on  this  subject,  came  out  here  and  was  tempted  to  trv  a  little 
experiment  on  us.  Probably  she  didn't  mean  to  go  quite  so  far, 
in  the  first  instance.  Just  showed  herself  in  the  moonlight, 
playing  at  being  an  apparition  for  our  benefit.  She'd  be  able 
to  sec  us  on  the  lawn  from  here.  And  then  when  we  caught 
her,  she  had  to  pla)'  up  to  the  part.  No  doubt,  she  recognised 
Lady  Ulrica's  credulity.  Recognised  her  as  the  kind  of  woman 
that  makes  the  fortune  of  the  ordinary  medium.  And  all  that 
nonsensical  talk  of  hers — not  badly  done,  in  a  way,  by  the  by — - 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  l2$ 

was  just  the  sort  of  stuff  they  spew  up  at  a  st;ance.  Eh  ?  Don't 
you  agree?  What  we'\e  got  to  do  now  is  to  find  out  who  it 
was.  We'll  go  down  and  talk  to  Messenger  tomorrow  morn- 
ing, and  get  the  truth  about  it.  He's  got  an  uncommonly  pretty 
daughter,  by  the  way;  and  I  don't  think  we'll  take  Fell.  He 
showed  signs  of  being  a  trifle  cpris  in  that  quarter,  when  he 
was  down  here  last." 

Harrison's  confidence  grew  as  he  spoke,  and  before  he  liad 
finished  he  had  warmed  to  quite  a  glow  of  certainty.  His  ex- 
citement had  something  the  quality  of  that  displayed  by  one 
who  finds  himself  unhurt  after  a  nasty  accident. 

"Expect  you're  rigin,"  Grcatorex  agreed  calmly. 

"Well,  we'd  better  get  back  to  the  others — with  our — 
our  e\  idencc."  Harrison  looked  down  at  the  scarf  in  his  hands, 
and  began  automaticall)-  to  fold  it  as  he  spoke.  "Tliere's  a  path 
through  the  plantation,  a  few  yards  further  up,"  he  continued. 
"No  need  for  us  to  tear  ourselves  to  pieces  among  the  shrubs. 
As  you  said,  we  ha\en't  the  least  chance  of  finding  the  lady 
by  this  light,  and  the  only  decent  thing  we  can  do  is  to  clear 
off,  and  let  her  find  her  way  back  to  the  hotel." 

"If  your  theory  is  the  right  one,"  Greatorex  commented, 
as  they  began  to  walk  up  the  bank  of  the  lake. 

"Have  you  a  better?"  snapped  Harrison. 

"No — no,"  Greatorex  admitted.  "Can't  say  I  have.  And 
anyway,  yours  is  susceptible  of  proof.  All  we  have  to  do  is  to 
find  the  lady." 

"Quite  so,"  Harrison  said  without  conviction.  He  foresaw, 
with  a  little  qualm  of  uneasiness,  that  his  failure  to  produce 
the  lady  might  prove  a  difficulty  in  any  controversy  that  might 
follow  with  Vernon  and  I^ady  Ulrica.  If  he  definitely  com- 
mitted himself  to  a  theory  that  could  be  upheld  or  discredited 
by  the  investigation  of  verifiable  facts,  he  would  be  at  an  im- 
mense disadvantage  should  the  facts  go  against  him — as,  he 
was  ready  to  admit  to  himself,  they  very  possibly  might.  He 
realised  that  in  his  excitement  he  had  been  too  hasty. 


126  ?I(;ns  ANn  wi'vNiirRS 

"Of  course,  G.,"  lie  S.111I  oil  :\  f.iiiitly  fxpostiilatinLr  note, 
**o^coul^.•,  I  may  h:\\x-  hccii  rather  picmaturc  iti  a^sllmiIl^  that 
tliis — cr — \isitor  o( Ours  was  stayini;  at  the  hotel.  I — I  ilon't 
in  any  wav  inNist  on  that.  It's  our  first  elianec  aiul  perhaps  our 
best  one;  hut  there  .ire  otiur  alternatives.  Wc  can  beyin  with 
this  scarf.  That'soursoliil  ground  of  e\  iilriue.  What  we  have 
to  do  is  to  trace  the  owner." 

"Kxactlv,"  Grcatorc.x  a^reeil  thouiihtfully. 

Harrison  notii-ed  tiic  souml  ota  (piahflcation  in  Ins  friend's 
reply. 

"Well,  isn't  it:"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  o!i  )es;  that's  all  ri^ht,"  Greatorcx  a;j;reed.  *'I  was 
only  wondcrintr  why,  after  all,  wc  should  bother  any  more 
about  it  r" 

Harrison  was  too  clever  a  man  to  attempt  c\asions.  He  saw 
quite  clearly  that  if  he  pretended  some  more  or  less  plausible 
excuse  such  as  being  annoyed  by  the  trespass,  Greatorex  would 
sec  through  him.  And  he  would  not  risk  that.  Instead,  he  took 
what  se«.incd  a  perfectly  safe  line. 

"To  be  quite  lionest,  G.,"  he  said,  "I  am  full)'  anticipating 
that  Vernon  will  cliim  tins — this  experience,  as  being  a  spirit- 
ualistic phenomenon.  And — and — well,  I'll  admit  that  that 
attitude  anno\'s  me.  It's  so  childish.  This  seems  to  me  a — a 
perfccth  fair  instance  of  the  sort  of  thing  that  these  credulous 
people  take  hold  of  and  transform  into  what  they  call  proof. 
Properly  garbled,  as  no  doubt  it  will  be,  this  silly  little  incident 
will  presently  be  figuring  in  the  Proceedings  of  the  S.P.R.  as 
*new  e\idence.'  Vernon  could  dress  it  up  to  look  as  circum- 
i>taiuial  as  the  evidence  in  a  police-court — give  all  our  names 
and  addresses,  and  make  out  affidavits  for  us  to  sign — affidavits 
that  would  not  contain  a  single  mis-statement  of  fact  so  far  as 
wc  can  see,  but  taken  altogether  would  ha\c  an  entirely  false 
significance.  You  know  how  the.  .  .  "  He  broke  oR  suddenly 
in  the  middle  of  his  sentence.  "WHiat  the  devil's  that?"  he 
asked  sharpl)'. 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  1  2  "] 

He  had  paused  in  his  walk,  as  was  his  habit  when  he  wished 
to  elaborate  an  argument,  and  they  had  not  y^t  left  the  bank 
of  the  lake  for  the  path  through  the  plantation.  What  had  so 
abruptly  diverted  his  attention  was  the  beginning  of  a  sound 
in  that  airless  night,  a  sound  that,  as  they  waited  and  listened, 
waxed  from  the  first  insistent  whispering  v/ith  which  it  had 
begun,  to  a  fierce  rustling  that  seemed  to  swell  almost  to  a  roar, 
before  it  died  again  to  the  hushed  sibilancc  of  the  outset. 

"What  the  devil  is  it?"  Grcatorex  muttered. 

Harrison  gave  a  little  scream  of  half-hysterical  laughter. 

"Our — our  nerves  must  have  been  very  thoroughly  upset, 
G.,"  he  said  in  a  strained  voice,  "if — if  you  and  I  can  be  startled 
by  the  sound  of  wind  in  the  poplars.  They're  on  the  island 
there,  a  big  clump  of  them.  Now  I  think  of  it,  that's  one  of 
the  things  that  made  this  place  so  confoundedly  unfamiliar  to- 
night. It's  the  first  time  I've  ever  been  here  when  it  has  been 
so  still  that  the  poplars  weren't  talking." 

"Wind  !"  ejaculated  Grcatorex.  "There  is  no  wind." 

"There  has  been,"  Harrison  said,  and  pointed  to  the  lake 
whose  level  surface  was  now  flawed  here  and  there  by  a  tiny 
ripple  that  flashed  an  occasional  reflected  sparkle  from  the  high 
moon. 

"Queer !"  Grcatorex  eiaculated,  and  shi\ered  as  if  he  were 
suddenly  cold. 

"But,  after  all,  why  queer,  G.,r"  Harrison  expostulated, 
although  there  was  still  a  note  of  uneasiness  in  iiis  voice.  "I — 
I  mean,  there  are  always,  on  the  stillest  night,  these  sliglu 
movements  of  the  air.  We  happen  to  notice  it  because  it's  so 
particularly  still." 

"Uncannily  still,"  Grcatorex  murm.ured. 

"Oh  !  damn  it,  G.,"  Harrison  expostulated;  "if  you're  go- 
ing to  get  superstitious  about  meteorological  conditions.  ..." 

"It's  no  use  pretending,  Harrison,"  Grcatorex  returned. 
"There  is  something  uncaiuiy  about  this  place  to-night.  I'm 
not  a  superstitious  man,  as  \ou  know,  but  I  don't  mind  con- 


1  :  S  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

fcssiiii:  that  I'xc  i^ot  the  creeps."  He  shiveicJ  ai:;ain,  aiul  then 
atlileil,  "Come  ah)ii^,  let's  L;et  haek  to  \a\w  familiar  house.  \\c 
had  nuniiih  ot"  tliis." 

I  Ian  ison's  oiiK-  ri-|il\'  at  ihc  moment  was  a  mimt  ot'aiinoy- 
anee,  hut  after  the\  hail  turneil  into  the-  path  hLtwcen  the  yews 
he  hegaii  to  talk  aiiaiii.  ".Vilmittinu,"  he  said,  "that  my  nerves, 
too,  are  a  trifle  on  edi^e,  what  does  that  prove,  unless  it  is  that 
we  still  retain  soiiKthing  of'  the  emotional  fear  of'  the  savage  V* 
"WMiat  a  chap  \oii  are  for  pro\in;4  things  this  evening," 
Greatorex  returiuil.  "That  argument  with  Vernon  has  vipset 
you." 

*' rhe\'  lav  such  stress  on  all  these  suhjective  reactions," 
Harrison  grumbled,  e\idently  continuing  his  own  line  of 
thought.  "A  normal  ps)  chology.  ..." 

But  at  this  point  they  came  out  of  the  plantation  into  the 
clear  spaces  of  the  meadow  and  were  instantly  hailed  by  Fell 
and  Mrs.  Greatorex,  who  came  forward  to  meet  them. 

"l^hc  others  have  gone  on,"  Fell  explained.  "Lady  Ulrica 
had  a  kind  of  faint,  and  Mrs.  Harrison  and  Vernon  have  taken 
her  hack  to  the  house.  What  a  time  you've  been!" 

"I  suppose  you  didn't  find  an)'oner"  Mrs.  Greatorex  asked. 
"No,  no,  we  didn't,"  Harrison  replied.   "Only  a  part  of 
the  lad\'s  apparel."  And  he  exhibited  the  tulle  scarf  with  the 
air  of  one  prepared  to  explain  a  conjuring  trick. 
"Where  did  you  find  it?"  Fell  asked. 
"On  Harrison's  back,"  Greatorex  said. 
"On  his  back?"  ejaculated  Fell. 

"Simple  enough,  simple  enough,"  Harrison  explained. 
"We'd  been  dodging  and  skirmishing  about  the  plantation, 
and,  no  doubt,  I  vmknowingly  scraped  the  thing  off  one  of  the 
trees.  Greatorex  saw  it  when  we  came  out  into  the  light  by 
the  lake." 

"Yes,"  Greatorex  commented,  "and  it  was  spread  out  over 
his  coat  as  neatly  as  you  please — might  ha\e  been  arranged 
there  as  a  kind  of  joke." 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  129 

"Herbert!"  his  wife  ejaculated.  "Do  you  mean  that  the 
woman  was  pla)'ing  tricks  on  you;  behind  }our  back,  as  it 
werer" 

Harrison  clicked  his  tongue,  as  it"  he  were  facetiously  re- 
proving a  child. 

"Not  you  too,  Mrs.  Greatorcx,"  lie  said.  "I — I  gi\e  you 
credit  for  more  sense.  The  truth  is  that  your  good  husband  has 
brought  with  him  into  tliis  life  some  of  the  old  fears  and  super- 
stitions tliat  used  to  rule  him  when  he  plundered  and  murdered 
on  the  high  seas.  Yes — yes — in  effect  that's  the  truth,  thougli 
we  may  find  a  biological  explanation  for  the  phenomenon  with- 
out accepting  any  tlieory  of  reincarnation.  It's — it's  a  case  of 
latent  cell  memory,  and  to-night  it  has  come  out  \cry — \'erv 
strongly.  He  can  find  no  explanation  but  the  supernatural.  1 
— I  assure  you,  when  a  little  bit  of  a  breeze  sprang  up  just  now 
and  set  the  poplars  whispering,  he  was  absolutely  terrified.  It 
only  needed  another  touch  to  set  him  crossing  himself  and 
calling  on  iiis  patron  saint." 

"Oh,  Herbert!"  Mrs.  Greatorcx  expostulated.  "You  don't 
really  believe  it  was  a  spirit,  do  }'our" 

Everyone  knew  that  Greatorcx  had  married  beneath  him, 
but  his  wife's  usual  method  in  company  was  to  maintain  a 
thoughtful  silence  that  covered  a  multitude  of  faults.  That 
method  was  one  of  her  own  devising.  Her  husband  had  never 
attempted  to  correct  her.  Nor  did  he  now  show  the  least  im- 
patience eitiier  with  her  unusual  loquacity  or  her  failure  to  ap- 
preciate Harrison's  persiflage. 

"No,  my  dear,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't,"  he  said;  "but 
if  you  ask  me,  our  host  is  almost  painfully  anxious  to  prove  that 
the  strange  lady  was  of  like  substance  toourselves,  of  very  flesh 
and  bone  subsisting;  I  forget  just  how  the  quotation  goes." 

"Well,  of  course  she  w.as,"  his  wife  replied  with  an  air  of 
assurance.  "What  else  could  she  ber" 

"Er — er — by  the  way,  Mrs.  Greatorex,"  Harrison  put 
in.  "Did  you — er— see  her  plainly.?  Could  you  by  any  chance 
I 


I  ^0  SIGNS  AND  WONDFRS 

describe  her  for — for  the  purposes  of  iJcntificritioiir" 

*'^'es,  1  think  I  couUl,"  Mrs.  Greatorcx  said  elieeifully. 
"She  was  wearing  a  rather  dowdy — oKl-fashioned,  at  least — 
white  dress,  imire  hke  a  Mei:h'i;ec  than  anythinL!.  I  thoiiijht  it 
timny  she  shoidd  come  out  in  the  ganlcn  in  a  thing  hke  that. 
Hut  I  didn't  make  out  quite  what  the  material  w.is.  It  looked 
like  a  rather  fine  linen  tulle  worn  o\er  a  white  linen  petticoat, 
I  thouLiht.  And  she  had  a  common  scarf — but  of  cours;;  you've 
got  that  in  )  our  hand  now.  .  .  ,  " 

"Hni!  yes,"  Harrison  interrupted.  "Hut  her  face,  ehr  Did 
you  happen  to  catch  her  in  profile,  by  any  chancer" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ^/.v/ notice  her  face  very  particularly," 
.Mr>.  Greatorcx  said.  "She  seemed  quite  an  ordinary  sort  of 
yoimj^  woman,  I  thought." 

They  had  been  retracing  their  way  across  the  field  as  they 
talked,  and  now  ha\  ing  reached  the  sunk  fence,  fded  up  the 
little  flight  of  stone  steps  to  the  garden.  I'cforc  them,  across 
the  width  of  tlie  lawn  the  lighted  windows  of  the  drawing- 
room  shone  artificially  \cllow  against  the  whiteness  of  the 
moonlight.  They  had  returned  to  the  influences  of  their  own 
world;  even  the  garden  planned  and  formalised  was  a  man- 
made  thing.  But  as  they  crossed  the  short,  well-kept  turf,  some 
common  impulse  made  them  pause,  and  with  a  movement  that 
seemed  to  be  concerted,  turn  back  to  look  down  o\  er  the  mea- 
dow to  the  plantation  and  the  solemn  stretches  of  the  lake — 
back  to  that  other  world,  vague,  mysterious  and  enormously 
still,  ir)to  which  they  had  so  carelessly  penetrated. 

No  one  spoke  until  Harrison,  with  an  impatient  sigh,  re- 
marked suddenly:  "Oh,  come  along!  let's  get  back  to  sanity." 

"Hm  !  Ye:>,"  Greatorcx  agreed. 

"About  time  we  went  to  bed,"  Harrison  went  on.  "We'll 
be  wiser  in  the  morning." 

"I  suppose,"  Fell  began  as  they  resumed  their  walk  to  the 
house,  but  Harrison  cut  short  his  speculations. 

"Here's  Emma  coming  to  rcpro\e  us,"  he  interrupted. 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  I3I 

"She'll  probably  insist  on  our  all  taking  something  hot  to  ward 
off  the  evil  effects  of  miasma." 

Mrs.  Harrison  was,  in  fact,  coming  quickly  to  meet  them 
with  a  brisk  air  of  urgenc)';  and  as  though  she  would  shorten 
the  little  distance  tliat  still  di\  idcd  them,  she  called  to  her  hus- 
band while  she  was  still  some  few  yards  away,  on  a  note  that 
held  the  suggestion  of  a  faint  asperity. 

"Charles.  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said, 

"Arc  we  in  the  \v:\\  r"  Fell  asked  as  they  hurried  to  meet 
her. 

Mrs.  Harrison  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  as  if  she  had 
been  unexpectedly  reminded  of  the  fact  of  his  existence,  and 
then,  taking  no  notice  of  his  question,  continued: 

"That  man  Messenger,  from  the  hotel,  is  here,  Charles, 
with  the  police  sergeant.  They  want  to  sec  )'ou  at  once." 

Harrison's  quick  mind  leapt  at  once  to  a  possible  explana- 
tion. 

"Ha!  Nov,'  we  shall  hear  something  about  the  lady  of  the 
lake,  no  doubt,"  he  said. 

"It's  about  Messenger's  daughter,"  Mrs.  Harrison  replied. 
"She's — she  has  disappeared.  They  are  looking  for  her;  and 
Messenger  wants  to  know  if  they  can  go  down  to  the  planta- 
tion. He  has  apparently  got  some  idea  that  she  may  be  there." 

"Oh!"  commented  Harrison  on  a  falling  note,  and  ex- 
changed a  glance  of  luiderstanding  with  his  wife.  Then  they 
both  turned  and  looked  at  Fell. 

He  had  almost  forgotten  the  resolutions  he  had  made  an 
hour  earlier,  and  was  quite  unprepared  to  meet  the  silent  ac- 
cusation that  was  now  levelled  at  him. 

"I — /  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  he  stammered. 

"Oh,  well,"  Harrison  said.  "Let's  go  and  hear  what  Mes- 
senger and  the  Sergeant  have  to  tell  us,  I  suppose  this  means 
that  we  shall  have  to  make  another  pilgrimage  to  the  lake." 

Greatorex,  in  the  rear  of  the  procession,  was  heard  to  re- 
mark that  he  was  damned  if  he  could  make  head  or  tail  of  it. 


1  3  2  Sir.NS  AND  WONDERS 

PARI    ^:  HIE  EXPLANAlUtN 

I 

Mr.  Mcsscntior  aiul  tlic  Scr;4c;im  were  in  the  diawiiig- 
rcKMn  talking  to  I^ady  Ulrica  ami  Vernon,  when  Harrison,  at 
the  head  of  the  little  party,  entered  by  the  French  window, 

Mr.  Mc5iscngcr's  story  was  soon  told.  His  daviijhter  hail 
left  the  hotel  presmnahl)'  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock,  and 
had  not  been  seen  since  He  explained  that  he  was  peculiarly 
anxious  because  she  had  been  in  very  low  spirits  recently.  For 
one  thing,  a  friend  of  hers,  a  Mrs.  IJurton  who  lived  a  few 
miles  awa)',  had  cominitted  suicide  about  three  weeks  before. 
Also,  and  here  Mr.  Messeng;.-r  looked  rather  poifUedl)  in  the 
direction  of  Robert  Fell;  also,  he  believed  that  ^lie  had  —  he 
paused  with  obvious  intention  before  he  concluded — 'She  had 
— another  trouble  on  her  mind." 

Harrison  had  listened  with  a  preoccupied  air  that  was  un- 
usual to  him.  Hut  as  tiie  hotel-keeper  finished  his  story,  he 
warmed  again  to  his  usual  alertness, 

"I  must  tell  you,  Messenger,"  he  said,  "that  we  have  only 
this  moment  come  up  from  the  lake,  all  of  us.  And  we  saw  no 
sign  of  )Our  daughter  there,  but  we  did  meet  another  young 
woman,  a  perfect  stranger  to  all  of  us,  who  beha\  cd  in — er — 
in  a  rather  odd  manner.  Might  I  ask  you  if  you  have  anyone 
staying  with  you  who  at  all  answers  that  description?" 

"We'\ e  no  one  sta\ing  in  the  house  at  all  this  week-end, 
sir,"  Messenger  replied, 

"And  do  you  know  of  anyone,  any  stranger  staging  in  the 
village:" 

"There's  no  one,  sir,  to  my  knowledge,"  Messenger  said, 
and  went  on  quickly:  "But  ha\e  I  )'0ur  permission  now,  sir, 
for  me  and  Mr.  Ste\ens  to  go  down  to  tlie  plantation,  and — 
and  the  laker"  He  paused  before  he  added  in  a  lower  tone, 
"Though  I'm  afraid  we'll  be  too  late.  She's  been  gone,  now, 
for  more  than  three  hours." 

"But  we'\'e  just  com:  back  from  the  plantation,  all  of  us," 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  I33 

Harrison  protested.  "If  she'd  been  there,  surely  we  should 
have  seen  herr" 

"Not  if  slieM,  .  .  .  if  she'd  been.  ..."  Messenger  began, 
and  stopped  abruptly,  putting  his  hand  to  his  throat  as  if  his 
words  had  clicked  him. 

Ste\ens,  the  police-sergeant,  shifted  his  feet  uneasily  and 
looked  half-appealingly  at  Mrs.  Harrison.  "Mr.  Messenger  is 
afraid  as  Miss  Phyllis  ma)'  'a\  e — may  'ave  done  what  her  friend 
Mrs.  Burton  did,"  he  explained. 

Mrs.  Harrison  got  to  her  feet  with  a  sudden  eftect  of  tense 
emotion,  but  before  she  could  speak  her  husband  cut  in  quickly 
by  saying,  "We'd  better  ha\e  the  electric  torches,  Emma. 
Will  you  get  them :  G.  and  I  will  go,  too.  Will  you  come, 
Vernon?" 

"Certainly,"  Vernon  said.  There  was  a  light  in  his  eyes 
that  was  hardly  indicative  of  horror  or  even  of  pity. 

Harrison  turned  away  from  him  with  a  movement  of  dis- 
gust. "And  Fell?  Where's  Fell r"  he  asked. 

But  Fell  had  already  left  the  room. 

"He  went  out  by  the  windov/,  a  couple  of  minutes  back, 
sir,"  the  Sergeant  said. 

Charles  Harrison  was  at  all  times  an  impatient  man,  and 
there  were  occasions,  as  in  the  present  case,  when  his  nervous 
irritability  completely  overcame  him.  He  was  seriously  dis- 
tressed by  the  thought  that  Phyllis  Messenger  had  in  all  pro- 
bability committed  suicide.  That  touched  him  on  his  human, 
generous  side.  But  the  thing  that  had  finally  upset  him  had 
been  the  look  on  Vernon's  face;  rapt,  faintly  mystical,  the  look 
of  one  who  believed  that  a  very  miracle  had  been  performed 
for  his  benefit.  Harrison  could  not  endure  to  remain  in  his 
presence  for  another  moment. 

"I'll — I'll  go  on  and  see  what's  become  of  Fell,"  he  mum- 
bled as  he  fairly  scuttled  out  of  the  room. 

Once  outside,  he  began  to  run.  He  wanted  to  think,  but 
his  mind  was  full  of  exasperation — with  Vernon  for  his  look 


I  J4  «IGN6  AND  WON'DfiAS 

of  triumph,  with  the  unfortun.ito  Phyllis  Messenger,  with  the 
\acill.ttiii^  Rohcrt  Fell  as  the  imineiliatc  cause  of  the  whole 
(hs;»sicr.  It  seemed  to  Charles  Harrison  as  if  a  fortuitous  coin- 
cidence of  c\ents  were  conspirin;^  aiiainst  him  to  produ*  e  the 
illusion  of  a  spiritualistic  ph.enonicnon.  He  did  not  he'ie\c  for 
one  moment  that  the  strajr^cr  he  had  seen  hy  the  plantation 
was  the  spirit  of  the  drowned  Phyllis  Messenger,  hut  he  fore- 
Siiw  the  kind  of  case  that  W-rnon  would  make  out,  and  the  ef- 
fect it  would  have  upon  all  the  other  members  of  the  partv. 
He  could  not  e\cn  be  sure  that  his  own  wife  might  not  be 
influenced.  When  that  confounded  Stevens  had  hinted  at  the 
probability  of  this  girl's  suicide,  a  \cry  queer  expression  had 
come  into  Emma's  face,  just  as  if  she  had  suddenly  realised 
some  strange,  significant  connection  between  the  possibilitv 
of  the  girl's  death  and  that  other  experience  earlier  in  the  c\  e- 
ning.  He  had  cut  hurriedly  into  the  conversation  for  fear  that 
she  might  say  something  foolish.  .  .  . 

No,  no,  the  girl  could  not,  must  Jiot  be  dead.  Thcv  would 
find  her  somewhere.  And  yet,  so  great  was  Harrison's  fore- 
boding that  he  never  paused  a  moment  by  the  yews,  but  hurried 
straight  on  to  the  shore  of  the  lake.  He  had  seen  nothing  of 
Fell.  He  had  indeed  forgotten  all  about  him. 

The  night  was  still  clear,  but  it  was  no  longer  frozen  into 
that  rigid  immobility  which  had  earlier  produced  so  strange  an 
effect  of  expectancy.  There  was  a  perceptible  movement  of 
air  from  the  west,  the  familiar  voices  of  the  poplars  maintained 
a  perpetual  background  of  sound,  and  when  he  had  come 
through  the  plantation  to  the  edge  of  tlic  lake,  he  could  hear 
the  minute  clashing  of  the  reeds  as  the  chasing  ripple  of  the 
water  set  them  gently  swaying.  The  air  of  mystery  had  fled. 
He  no  longer  felt  the  least  influence  of  fear.  The  dread  that 
he  might  presently  sec  something  that  hea\  ily  floated,  rocking 
and  pressing  against  the  rushes,  was  more  tlie  dread  of  anno)'- 
ance. 

But  there  was  no  one  in  sight.  Nothing  moved  on  all  the 


THE  KIGIIT  orCRK.VrlON  I35 

long  car\  ing  reaches  of  the  bank.  There  v/as  no  sound  in  tlic 
niglit  other  than  the  faint  crash  of  the  reeds,  the  soft  chuckle 
of  the  v/atcr  and  the  steady  insistence  of  the  sibilant  poplars. 

And  search  as  he  would  up  and  down  the  brooding  sweep 
of  the  dark  water,  damascened  here  and  there  by  the  yellow 
silver  of  moonlight  reflected  from  the  crest  of  the  increasing 
ripple,  he  could  see  no  slender  raft  of  floating  drapery,  nor  any 
sign  of  a  sodden  form,  nearly  immersed,  sagging  inertly  to- 
wards the  bank. 

He  desisted  prcsendy,  and  sat  down  to  consider  the  whole 
situation.  The  sense  of  exasperation  had  faded  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  night's  peace,  and  he  fell  into  a  calmer  consid- 
eration of  the  problem  that  was  vexing  liim.  He  saw  that  he 
must  take  the  initiative,  state  his  case  before  Vernon  could  get 
a  word  in.  He  would  treat  the  affair  as  an  instance  of  the  kind 
of  thing  that  gets  worked  up  into  what  these  people  absurdl)'' 
called  "e\'idence."  The  coincidence  of  this  stranger,  (who- 
e\'cr  she  was,)  turning  up  on  the  very  evening  on  which  that 
unhappy  girl  had  drowned  herself — if  she  had  siuik,  they 
would  ha\e  an  awful  job  to  recover  the  body;  the  lake  was 
over  forty  feet  deep  in  places — was  just  another  of  those  coin- 
cidences that  had  probably  been  responsible  for  most  of  the 
superstitions  about  the  appearance  of  the  spirit  at  the  moment 
of  death.  And  in  this  case  it  was  obviously  absurd  to  argue  that 
it  was  the  spirit  of  Phyllis  Messenger  they  had  seen.  <i.ffid 
heard!  That  was  a  good  point.  Finally  and  conclusively,  there 
was  the  tulle  scarf;  real  and  solid  enough.  No  one  had  ever 
heard  of  a  spirit  leaving  such  material  evidence  behind  it. 
What  had  he  done  with  that  scarf,  by  the  way?  He  had  had 
it  in  his  hand  when  he  had  entered  the  drawing-room.  He'd 
probably  laid  it  down  there,  somewhere.  He  must  make  en- 
quiries about  that  as  soon  as  he  got  in.  It  might  help  him  to 
trace  the  identity  of  the  stranger. 

He  had  wandered  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so  away  from  the 
path  through  the  plantation,  and  he  jumped  up  now,  with  the 


1  36  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS 

intention  of  getting  back  at  once  to  tlic  house,  in  order  to  make 
sure  of  that  \aluahle  piece  of  c\  idence.  IJut  as  he  came  out  of 
his  prciKcupation,  his  attention  was  arrested  hy  the  distant 
murmur  of  httle  detached  sounds,  the- separated  notes  of  human 
voices,  musical  in  their  remoteness,  faintly  impinging  upon  the 
textured  whisperings  of  the  night. 

Tliey  are  still  looking  for  that  poor  girl,  lie  tliought  with 
a  twinge  of  remorse  for  his  own  loss  of  interest  in  the  search. 
But  even  as  he  started  to  join  them,  he  re.diseil  that  the  sounds 
were  retreating,  fading  imperceptibly  into  the  deptlis  of  the 
night.  IIa\e  they  found  her,  I  wonder,  he  murmured  to  him- 
self, thinking  still  of  a  desecrated  and  draggled  body;  and  then 
he  licard  iiimsclf  being  distantly  hailed  in  the  strong,  cheerful 
\  oicc  of  his  friend  Greatorex. 

"Alloy  there,  Harrison;  Harrison, ahoy  I"  he  was  shouting. 

It  was  not  in  the  least  the  \oice  one  would  expect  from  a 
man  who  had  so  recently  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  de;;d. 

"Aho)'!  Hallo!  \Vhcre  are  \'our"  Harrison  shouted  in 
return. 

The  next  minute  he  saw  the  tall,  athletic  figure  of  Grea- 
torex coming  towards  liim  along  the  bank  of  the  lake. 

"Been  looking  for  you  c\  ervwhere,"  Greatorex  said  as  he 
came  within  speaking  distance.  "\Ve'\  c  found  the  lady." 

"Alive  r"  g.asped  Harrison. 

"Rather.  Not  exactly  heart\-,  perhaps,  but  she's  all  right. 
\Vc\\  enough,  in  any  case,  to  walk  back  to  the  house  in  the 
company  of  her  father  and  Fell."  He  dropped  his  voice  con- 
fidentially as  he  added:  "Seems  that  it's  a  case  with  Fell.  What? 
We  found  'em  together,  you  know,  in  a  cosy  little  place  among 
the  yews,  not  fi\e  yards  from  the  spot  where  the  mysterious 
lady  came  out.  Perfect  little  tunnel  up  to  it,  too.  If  v/e'd  hap- 
pened on  it  at  first,  we'd  ha\c  found  the  girl  tlierc  and  saved 
all  the  trouble.  Fell  knew  all  about  the  place,  it  seems.  Went 
straight  to  it  and  found  Miss  Messenger  in  a  faint,  or  just  re- 
covering from  it." 


THE  NldtlT  OF  CREATION  I37 

"How  long  had  she  been  there?"  Harrison  asked  sharply. 

"All  the  time,  presumably,"  Grcatorex  said. 

"Come  there  to  meet  Fell,  eh  r" 

"Sccm.s  probable.  And  we  spoilt  his  little  game  by  coming 
too,  I  suppose.  However,  he's  owned  up  now.  Made  a  clean 
breast  of  it,  and  declared  his  intention  of  marrying  her;  in  tlie 
presence  of  five  witnesses.  Quite  a  dramatic  little  scene  there 
was.  Old  Messenger  was  almost  o\  ercome." 

Harrison  did  not  seem  to  have  been  attending  to  this  speech, 
for  his  next  question  was: 

"You  didn't  find  anything  else  there,  did  you?  No  appa- 
ratus of  any  kind,  such  as  a  mask  or  attempts  at  a  disguise?" 

"Lord,  no.  I  didn't  see  anything,  and  I  was  the  first  to  get 
to  them,"  Greatorex  replied.  "But  why  ?  You  don't  think.  . .  " 

"That  she  may  have  been  prepared?  I  do,"  Harrison  said 
emphatically.  "She'd  made  an  assignation  and  come  read^•  to 
pass  herself  off  as  someone  else  if  she  were  caught — which  she 
■\  ery  nearly  was.  Showed  herself  in  the  first  instance  in  order 
to  attract  Fell's  attention,  and  unfortunately  for  her  brought 
the  whole  party  out." 

"Oh!  no,  no,  Harrison.  No,  I  don't  think  so,"  Grcatorex 
said.  "You'\e  got  that  blessed  apparition  or  whate\ er  it  was 
on  your  nerves.  But,  honestly,  that  explanation  woii't  do. 
Why,  the  girl  was  half-unconscious  when  I  found  'em." 

"Put  on,"  Harrison  interpolated. 

"Impossible,"  Greatorex  replied.  "When  we  got  her  out 
into  the  open,  she  was  still  as  white  as  a  sheet." 

"Effect  of  moonlight,"  commented  Harrison. 

"No."  Greatorex's  tone  had  a  quality  of  great  assurance. 
"No,  she  was  recovering  from  a  faint  all  right.  There  can  be 
no  question  of  that.  Besides,  what  could  be  the  point  of  all  that 
make-believe  after  she  was  found?" 

"Well,  she  may  have  fainted  after  she'd  fooled  us,"  Har- 
rison suggested.  "Overwrought,  you  know." 

They  had  been  making  their  way  steadily  back  to  the 


I  jS  Sir.SN  AND  WONDFRS 

house  as  they  talked,  Init  Grc.itorcx  stopjicil  now  in  tlio  middle 
of  the  incidow,  and  took  Harrison  hv  tlic  lapel  of  liis  dinner- 
jacket. 

"Had  lino,  m\  fVicnd,"  he  s.n'd  gravch  ,  "Take  ni\'  advice 
and  don't  attempt  it  before  X'ernon.  I'm  ad\  i>iny  \  ou  lor  vour 
giood." 

"Well,  then,  wlio  the  dc\  il  was  itr"  Harrison  snapped  im- 
patiently. 

"Ah  I  there  you  ha\  e  me,"  Grcatorcx  said. 

"Hut,  LTood  God,  G.,"  f{arris,on  expostulated,  "i'cw  don't 
bclie\c  that  it  was  a — er — an  apparition." 

"Uunno  what  to  think,"  Grcatorex  said. 

Harrison  blew  a  deep  breath  of  disgust.  "I  thought  you 
had  more  sense,"  he  snapped  out. 

"Well,  I'm  willing  to  be  convinced,"  Grcaturex  replied; 
"if  you  have  any  other  explanation  to  offer." 

But  HarrisoJi  had  nothing  further  to  say  in  the  matter  just 
then.  He  wanted  to  sec  Phyllis  Messenger  first,  alone.  When 
he  had  got  his  e\  idencc,  he  would  be  ready  to  offer  his  expla- 
nation. 

They  found  oiil)  Mrs,  Harrison  and  Mrs.  Grcatorex  in 
the  drawing-room  when  they  entered  by  the  French  window. 
Messenger,  his  daughter,  Stevens  and  Fell  had  gone  back  to 
the  hotel,  she  explained,  and  \'crnon  and  Lady  Ulrica  were  in 
the  morning-room,  conferring,  so  Mrs.  Harrison  suggested, 
ov  cr  the  events  of  the  evening. 

"I  don't  quite  know  whether  Mr.  Fell  means  to  come 
back,"  Mrs.  Harrison  concluded  with  a  lit't  of  her  eyebrows. 
"He  seemed — well,  rather  ashamed  of  himself  altogether.  I'm 
not  sure  that  he  hasn't  taken  his  tilings." 

"Just  as  well,  perhaps,"  her  husband  said.  And  then  his 
observant  glance  fell  on  the  tulle  scarf  thrown  ov er  the  back 
of  a  chair. 

"Did  you  find  out  whom  that  belonged  tor"  he  asked 
sharply. 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION'  I39 

"Oh !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Harrison.  "They  left  it  behind 
after  all.  It's  Miss  Messenger's.  She  identified  it  at  once  and 
wondered  how  it  had  got  here." 

"Certain  it  was  hers,  I  suppose?"  Harrison  asked. 

"Oh  yes!  It's  got  her  initials  worked  on  it,"  his  wife  told 
him. 

For  a  few  seconds  Harrison  stood  tlioughtfully  drawing 
the  scarf  through  his  hands,  then  dropping  it  back  on  to  the 
chair,  he  said:  "That's  all  right,  then.  Hadn't  we  better  be  go- 
ing to  bed?  It's  after  one  o'clock." 


2 

When  Charles  Harrison  set  about  the  investigation  of  that 
night's  mystery,  he  was  still  intent  upon  the  theory  that  the 
appearance  he  had  seen  and  spoken  to  was  in  fact  the  living 
personality  of  some  stranger  who  had  been  staying  either  in  the 
village  or  possibly  at  Orton  Park,  the  grounds  of  which  sloped 
down  to  the  other  side  of  tlie  lake.  There  were  a  couple  of 
canoes  and  a  punt  in  Lord  Orton's  boathousc,  and  the  crossing 
presented  no  real  difficulty.  He  was,  however,  finally  deflected 
from  that  theory  in  the  course  of  his  interview  with  Miss  Mes- 
senger. 

He  liad  been  quite  firm  at  breakfast.  As  a  result,  no  doubt, 
of  the  'conference'  the)'  had  held  the  night  before,  Lady  Ulrica 
and  Vernon  were  eager  to  begin  an  inimcdiate  discussion  of 
what  they  called  tlie  'phenomenon.'  Harrison  effectively  stop- 
ped that. 

"No!  no!!  no!!!"  he  said,  putting  liis  hands  over  his  cars 
as  soon  as  the  topic  was  opened.  "Now,  Vernon,  you  profess 
to  be  scientific  in  your  investigations.  You — )'ou  insisted  on 
that  in  your — er — lecture  under  the  cedar  last  night.  Now 
listen  to  me.  I  promise  to  thrash  this  out  with  you — presently. 
To — to  discuss  the  thing  in  all  its  bearings.  But  I  at  least  mean 
to  be  thorough  and  careful  in  my  methods.  Give  me  to-day  to 


140  SIC.NS  AND  WONDF.R? 

examine  the  case.  I  niust  cros^-c\■alnilR•  tin*  principal  witness 
— cr — alone,  ^'cs.  I  insist  on  that,  ^'ou'li  ha\c  the  \ery  best 
intentions,  of  course.  I  don't  doubt  it.  Hut  you'll  offer  sugges- 
tions— unconsciously,  perhaps,  but  you'll  do  it." 

"And  you:"  X'ernon  replied.  "Won't  you  put  suggestions 
into  the  ex.unincc's  mind,  too?" 

"Hm!  lun!  You'll  have  to  trust  nw^'''  H.;rrison  said.  "I 
assure  you  that  I  only  want  to  arri\  e  at  the  truth  of — of  the 
actual  facts,  you  umlerstantl.  I  want  to  know  what  Miss  Mes- 
senger was  doing  down  there  for  three  hours  or  more.  And  if 
you  want  me  to  discuss  the  thing  with  you,  you  must  let  mc 
get  at  the  facts  in  my  own  way.  I — I  make  that  a  condition. 
If  vou  won't  agree  to  it,  I  shall  refuse  to  discuss  the  thin<r  at 
all." 

"Oh,  \ crv  v\ell,"  Vernon  agreed. 

And  Harrison  had  gone  oft' to  the  hotel  after  breakfast,  in 
the  cheerful  state  of  mind  of  one  who  has  good  reasons  to  hope 
for  the  best. 

Miss  Messenger  received  him  in  tlie  pri\ate  parlour  of  the 
hotel,  a  room  that  c\  idcnced  her  desperate  efforts  to  alleviate 
the  influence  of  the  original  furniture. 

She  professed  to  be  completely  reco\ered  from  the  effects 
of  her  ad\enture,  and  indeed  she  displayed  no  sign  of  illness. 
Her  engagement  to  Robert  Fell  was,  it  seemed,  an  understood 
thing,  and  she  recci\ed  Mr.  Harrison's  congratulations  with 
the  air  proper  to  the  occasion.  Harrison,  who  had  only  known 
her  very  slightly  hitherto,  decided  in  his  own  mind  that  she 
was  a  \ery  charming  young  woman,  and  came  at  last  to  the 
purpose  of  his  visit  with  a  slight  effect  of  apology. 

"I — I  don't  know  whether  you  ha\  e  heard,  Miss  Messen- 
ger," he  began,  "that  wc  had  another  visitor  in  the  plantation 
last  night." 

She  opened  her  eyes  at  that,  with  a  genuine  surprise  that 
could  not  be  mistaken. 

"Didn't  Mr.  Fell  or  your  father  say  anything  to  you  about 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION'  I  4I 

itr"  Harrison  continued. 

She  looked  at  him  with  obvious  perplexit)'.  "About  ano- 
ther visitor?"  she  repeated.  "No,  they  haven't  told  me  anything. 
I  don't  quite  understand." 

"I — I'll  explain  in  a  moment,"  Harrison  said.  "There  are 
just  one  or  two  little  questions  that  I'd  like  to  ask  you  first,  if 
you  don't  mindr" 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  sigh.  "No,  I  don't  mind,"  she 
said.  "I  suppose  as  a  matter  of  fact  you  know  all  about  it  al- 
ready?" 

"Something,"  Harrison  agreed,  shrev/dly  guessing  at  her 
meaning.  "So  far  as  you  and  Mr.  Fell  are  concerned  at  least. 
But — well — I'll  tell  you  in  a  moment  why  I  want  to  know 
— could  you  say  what  the  time  was  when  you  got  to  the  plan- 
tation?" 

"A  little  before  ten,"  she  told  hini.  "I  heard  the  stable 
clock  in  Orton  Park  strike  after  I'd  been  there  a  few  minutes." 

"Hm!  hm!  And  what  did  you  do  exactly  between  ten  o' 
clock  and — er — half-past  twelve  or  so?"  Harrison  enquired. 

Phyllis  Messenger's  face  glowed  suddenly  red.  "I — I  don't 
know,"  she  said  after  a  marked  pause. 

"Did  you  go  to  sleep,  for  instance?"  Harrison  asked  with 
a  friendly  smile. 

She  shook  her  head.  "It  wasn't  a  sleep,"  she  said,  and  then 
went  on  quickly :  "Oh,  you  said  you  knev/ — something.  Don't 
you  know  how — how  unhappy  I  was?" 

Mr.  Harrison  turned  his  head  away  and  stared  at  the  ferns 
in  the  fireplace.  "I've  heard  something,"  he  murmured. 

"About  my  friend  Rhoda  Burton?"  Miss  Messenger  said. 

"Ah !  yes.  She — she  committed  suicide  about  a  month  ago, 
I  believe?"  Harrison  mumbled. 

"Well,  I  meant  to  do  that,  too,"  Phyllis  Messenger  burst 
out  with  a  sudden  boldness.  "In  there,  where  they  found  me. 
I  meant  to — to  strangle  myself  v/ith  my  tulle  scarf.  I  tied  it 
round  my  neck  and  I  meant  to  do  it.  And  then  I  couldn't." 


143  '^IC.N?  AN'D  WONDER3 

"Vcs:"  H.irris<m  pioniptcil  her  ^cntly. 

"C)h,.iiui  then  I  threw  it  down  —  the  scarf,  I  incan — and 
CNcrvthiML:  went  hl.ick.  1  thought  I  was  'Joiiiy:  to  die.  I  went 
down  on  my  knees  and  tried  to  pray.  I  ilon't  remember  anv- 
thinji  at'tcr  th.it  xintil — until  they  found  me." 

Harrison's  aiiile  mind  seized  the  significance  of  this  evi- 
dence in  a  Hash.  At  one  stroke  it  ehminateil  the  probability  of 
tliat  scarf  ha\  ini:  been  worn  bv  a  stran;^cr.  If  the  scarf  had  hiin 
there  by  the  side  of  the  swooning  Miss  Messeni:;cr,  no  one  but 
a  m  id  woman  could  ha\c  callously  picked  it  up,  worn  it  and 
postured  before  a  jzroup  of  half  a  do7.en  people  without  makinp; 
the  least  mention  ot  the  helpless  figure  to  whom  it  belonj!;ed. 
For  a  moment  he  plaved  with  the  thought  of  a  madwoman, 
but  dismissed  it.  If  there  w;;s  a  madwoman  in  Lonjz  Orton  or 
the  nci:ihbourhood,  he  would  ha\  e  heard  of  her. 

He  sighed  h^rav  ilv,  and  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  giving  him- 
Sv.lf  more  time,  said,  ''You're  quite  sure  \ou  had  the  scarf  with 
your 

"Well, of  course,"  .Miss  Messenger  replied.  *'Ionly  bought 
it  last  week;"  and  added  with  a  shudder,  "but  I  don't  ever  want 
to  see  it  ag.u'n."  There  could  be  no  question  of  the  \i\idncss 
of  the  unhappy  memories  associated  in  her  mind  with  that 
particular  article  of  apparel. 

"It  doesn't  follow,  however,"  Harrisoji  went  on  thought- 
fully after  a  perceptible  pause,  "that  because  you  have  no  me- 
mory of  anything  after  you  fainted,  you  ne\er  mo\ed  from 
the  spot  where  you  were  found?" 

-Miss  Messenger  shrugged  her  slioulders.  "I  can't  sa\-  any- 
thing about  that,  can  I:"siie  asked. 

"You  see,"  Harrison  explained,  "earlier  in  the  evening, 
it  may  have  been  about  eleven  or  thereabouts,  my  friends  and 
I  saw  someone  down  by  the  plantation,  and — and  went  down 
to  investigate.  And  there  we  met  and  spoke  to — er — someone 
who  was  unc|uestionably  wearing  )'our  scarf — which  she  later 
discarded.   It  was  found  later  by  myself,  as  a  matter  of  fact," 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  143 

"How  very  extraordinary!"  was  all  Miss  Messenger's 
comment.  Her  surprise  and  interest,  however,  were  beyond 
question. 

"Inexplicable,"  Harrison  agreed. 

"But  who  could  it  have  been?"  Miss  Messenger  besought 
him. 

"It  could,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out,  only  have  been  your- 
self— in  a  trance,"  Harrison  replied.  He  instinctively  disliked 
the  sound  of  that  last  word,  but  could  find  no  other.  People 
who  have  'swooned'  or  fainted  do  not  walk  about  in  that  con- 
dition. "Er — you've  never,  I  suppose — er — been  in  that  state 
of  unconsciousness  before?"  he  went  on  quickly,  as  if  to  obli- 
terate the  effect  of  the  too  suggestive  word. 

"Not  actually,"  Miss  Messenger  said,  hesitated,  and  then 
continued:  "but  I've — felt  queer  once  or  twice  lately." 

"Queer  r"  Harrison  prompted  her. 

"As  if — as  if  I  were  going  oiT  like  I  did  last  night,"  slie 
explained.  "Only  lately,  thoutjli.  Onl)'  since  my  friend  died." 

"Mrs.  Burton:" 

She  nodded. 

"Hm.  Very  sad,  very, "said  Harrison,gettingup,  and  then 
he  added:  "It  was  very  good  of  you  to  answer  my  questions, 
and  I  think,  now,  that  I  am  satisfied  as  to  the  identity  of  the 
stranger.  You  must  iia\e  walked  in  your  trance  last  night, 
Miss  Messenger,  and  made  y'our  way  back  again  to  the  place 
where  we  found  you,  dropping  )our  scarf  on  tlie  way.  You 
must  forgive  us  for  not  recognising  you  in  the  half-light." 

Miss  Messenger  had  no  comment  to  make  on  that  explan- 
ation. It  was  e\  ident  tliat  she  was  not  in  a  position  to  deny  his 
statement,  even  \{  she  had  had  the  desire  to  do  so.  .  .  . 

And  after  that  interview,  Harrison  began  to  see  his  way 
quite  clearly.  When  he  left  the  hotel  he  \  isitcd  the  scene  of  last 
night's  encounter  in  order  to  make  a  thorough  examination  of 
the  place  itself,  and  especially  of  that  curious  little  enceinte 
among  the  yews  where  Miss  Messenger  had  been  found,   He 


I  4  4  Sir.NS  AND  n'ONDFRi^ 

thovrjlit  it  po>>iMc  that  ho  inijiht  iliscoNcr  iVcsh  ovidoncc. 
No  frcslj  evidence,  however,  rewarded  his  investigation. 


.3 
Ho  was,  nevertheless,  in  very  good  spirits  at  dinner  that 

night.  The  discussion  had  been  postponed  bv  connnon  consent 

until  the  evening,  but  he  once  or  twice  reflrrLd  to  it  in  the 

course  of  the  meal. 

Grcatorex,  noting  his  host's  ahnost  gleehil  maiuicr,  asked 
him  it'  he  had  got  new  and  conchisixe  evidence  in  the  process 
of'  hi>%  iinestigations,  but  Harrison  refused  to  answer  that. 

"No,  no,"  he  said.  "We'll  have  it  out  after  dinner.  Ver- 
non has  got  his  case,  and  I  have  mine.  We'll  argue,  and  then 
put  it  to  the  vote.  Do  )ou  agree,  Vernon?" 

V^ernon,  no  less  confident  than  his  antagonist,  agreed  wil- 
lingly enough,  and  later,  when  they  were  all  gathered  together 
in  the  drawing-room,  he  agreed  also  to  open  the  discussion. 

"It's  all  so  clear  to  me,"  he  said.  "I  cannot  sec  how  there 
can  he  two  opinions." 

"Well,  fire  away,"  Harrison  encouraged  him. 

Vernon  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  clasped  hi;>  hands  be- 
hind  his  head. 

"I  postul.'.te  to  begin  with,"  he  said,  "that  we  were  all  in 
precisel)-  the  right,  expectant,  slightly  inert  condition  necessary 
to  the  production  of  phenomena.  We  were  sitting  in  a  circle, 
and  our  conscious  minds  were  completely  occupied  with  the 
subject  of  spiritualism.  We  were,  in  fact,  according  to  the  com- 
mon agreement  about  such  things,  in  the  state  that  best  enables 
us  to  assist  any  possible  manifestations  by — by  giving  out  power. 

"The  chief  medium  in  the  case  was  unquestionably  the 
unconscious  person  of  Miss  Messenger.  She  was  in  what  I  may 
call  an  ideal  trance  for  tlie  purpose  of  manifestation.  Also,  by 
an  extraordinary  chance,  her  body  wvs  secluded  and  in  dark- 
ness. If  the  conditions  had  been  planned  by  experts  they  could 


I 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  1 45 

hardly  have  been  impro\  ed  upon.  After  that  our  explanation 
of  the  apparition  and  of  the  'direct  \oice'  phenomena  is  largely 
dependent  upon  precedents. 

"With  regard  to  tlic  first,  1  claim  that  \on  SchrenckNot- 
sing's  photographs  taken  in  Paris  and  elsewhere  in  1 91 2  and 
1 91 3  have  sufficiently  demonstrated  tliat  in  fa\ourablc  condi- 
tions and  with  a  sensitive  medium,  a  form  of  matter,  not  as  yet 
scientifically  described,  may  be  drawn  from  the  body  of  the 
medium  and  used  by  the  external  agency  to  build  up  repre- 
sentations not  only  of  the  human  form,  but  also  of  familiar 
materials.  I  mention  that  in  order  that  we  may  not  be  in  any 
way  disturbed  by  the  fact  that  the  materialisation  was  dressed 
in  a  gown  of  different  colour  from  that  worn  by  Miss  Messen- 
ger. That  gown  too  was  instantly  wo\  en  oat  of  the  creative 
flux. 

"Indeed,  tlie  only  thing  that  was  not  so  momentarily  crea- 
ted and  re-absorbed  was  the  tulle  scarf.  That  must  actually  have 
been  taken  from  Miss  Messenger's  unconscious  body  and  hand- 
led by  the  temporary  form  evolved  out  of  the  teltplasm.  There 
is  good  precedent  for  that,  as  I  believe  I  said  last  night." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then,  as  Harrison  did  not  imme- 
diately reply,  he  added:  "And  if  we  are  all  agreed,  after  we 
have  finished  our  discussion  this  evening,  I  would  like  to  have 
separate  written  accounts  from  each  of  you  as  to  your  sight  of 
the  phenomenon;  those,  backed  by  the  evidence  of  Mr.  Mes- 
senger, his  daughter  and  the  police  sergeant,  ought,  I  think,  to 
establish  one  of  the  most  remarkable  and  con\'incing  cases  ever 
reported  to  the  S.P.R." 

"Steady,  steady,  Vernon,"  Harrison  put  in.  "I  can't  say 
that  I'm  absolutely  convinced  as  yet." 

"What's  the  alternative  explanation  r"  Vernon  asked. 

"That  it  was  Miss  Messenger  herself  whom  we  saw  in  a 
state  of  trance,"  Harrison  said.  "You  sec  I  concede  you  the 
trance." 

"But,  my  dear  man,"  Vernon  expostulated,  "the  figure 

K 


I46  SIGNS  AND  WONDIRS 

vvc  Siiw  by  the  wooil  was  not  like  Miss  Mcsscn:ztr." 

"No:"  Harrison  roplictl.  "\'cry  well,  let's  anal)  sc  tlic  dif- 
ferences as  obscr\cil  In'  the  \arious  witnesses.  You  bejrin,  Ver- 
non. Was  there  any  difterencc  in  hei-ihtr" 

"None  to  speak  of  that  I  noticed,"  Vernon  admitteil,  "Init 
that  woman  had  ailistinctlv  more  spiritual  face  than  Miss  Mes- 
senger." 

"An)  thiiii;  else:"  Harrison  pressed  him. 

"Wc  only  saw  her  for  a  few  moments,  of  course,"  Vernon 
s;iid.  "I  must  confess  that  at  the  moment  I  can't  think  of  any 
other  marked  ilirtlrenccs.  It — it  was  another  face  ami  expres- 
sion, that's  all." 

"And  you,  Emma,"  said  Harrison,  looking  at  his  wife. 

"I  couldn't  be  absolutely  sure  that  it  wasn't  Miss  Messen- 
ger," she  replied.  "We  were  all  in  rather  an  excited  state  just 
then,  weren't  wer" 

"But  the  dress  was  a  different  colour,"  put  in  Mrs.  Grca- 
torex.  "That  first  woman  was  in  white.  Miss  Messenger  had 
a  grey  dress  on." 

"I  think,  you  know,"  her  husband  continued,  "that  Ver- 
non rather  hit  the  mark  when  he  said  that  the  first  girl  had  a 
more  spiritual  face.  That  was  what  struck  me." 

"Ha\en't  vou  any  comments,  Lady  Ulrica?"  Harrison  ask- 
ed. ' 

Lady  Ulrica  sighed.  "I'm  afraid,"  she  said  honestly,  "that 
for  observations  of  that  kind,  you  can't  count  on  me  one  way 
or  the  other.  I'd  left  mv  glasses  imder  the  cedar,  and  I'm  as 
blind  as  a  bat  without  them." 

Harrison  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Well,  come, 
what  does  it  all  amount  to:"  he  asked.  "Is  there  any  reason  in 
the  world  why  we  should  resort  to  so  far-fetched  an  explana- 
tion as  the  supernatural  r  Let  us  consider  the  evidence  as  if  we 
were  going  to  put  it  before  a  body  of  expert  opinion.  We  were, 
according  to  Vernon's  own  admission,  in  an  "expectant,  slight- 
ly inert  condition.  '  Wc  had  been  talking  spiritualism  for  an 


THE  XIGHT  OF  CREATION  T47 

hour  or  more  after  dinner,  in  very  exceptional  conditions,  I  nev- 
er remember  a  stiller  or  an — cr — more  emotional  night.  When 
we  were  all  worked  up  by  Vernon's  eloquence  into  a  peculiar 
state  of  anticipation,  we  saw  a  white  figure  down  by  the  lake. 
It  was  inevitable,  in  these  circumstances,  th:;t  we  sliould  app- 
roach it  in  a  state  of  emotion.  And  what  did  we  find?  We 
found  a  young  woman  walking  in  trance.  Well,  that  state  had 
very  naturally  altered  her  usual  appearance,  given  her  face  a 
more  spiritual  expression.  No  doubt,  she  was  very  pale.  She 
told  me  this  morning  that  she  had  contemplated  suicide  just 
before  she  fell  into  this  trance,  and  I  conceive  it  as  being  pro- 
bable that  her  highly  disturbed  mental  condition  had  reacted 
upon  her  physical  appearance. 

"Now  let  us  consider  what  actually'  happened.  Three  ob- 
scr\  ers,  Emma,  Fell  and  myself,  had  seen  Miss  Messenger  be- 
fore and  failed  in  those  circumstances  to  recognise  her.  Is  that 
a  \'ery  remarkable  failure  when  we  give  due  weight  to  our  own 
excited  anticipations,  coupled  with  the  fact  that  the  girl  was 
in  an  altogether  abnormal  physical  stater  Furthermore  we  find 
that  four  people  fail  later  to  recognise  Miss  Messenger  as  the 
original  of  the  supposed  stranger.  Of  these  four,  one  admits 
that  she  cannot  be  trusted  as  an  observer  of  the  details,  another 
that  she  hardly  noticed  the  stranger's  face.  A  third,  Vernon, 
cannot  deny  that  he  was  the  victim  of  a  prepossession,  that  he 
anticipated  a  spiritualistic  phenomenon  and  he  is  not  therefore 
a  reliable  witness.  The  fourth  is  our  friend  Greatorex.  Now, 
G.,  I  ask  you  in  all  seriousness  whether  you  would  be  prepared 
to  swear  on  oath  that  the  figure  we  saw  for  a  few  seconds  in 
the  moonlight  down  by  the  yews  could  not  have  been  Miss 
Messenger  in  a  state  of  trance.  On  your  oath,  now." 

"No,  Harrison,  no.  I  would  not  be  prepared  to  swear  that," 
Greatorex  said.  "In  fact,  I  belie\e  you're  right  about  the 
whole  affair." 

"But  the  dress,  Mr.  Harrison,"  Mrs.  Greatorex  put  in. 
"That  v/oman  by  the  wood  was  in  white.  Miss  Messenger 


1  4S  SIGNS  AND  WONDFRS 

W.1S  wonrinc:  ^  i^rcy  ilrcs^." 

"TIk- effect  of  moonliiilit,  my  dear  l.uiv,"  Harrison  replied. 
"Moonliiiht  takes  the  colour  out  of  every  thine;."  As  he  spoke, 
he  got  to  his  feet  and  took  a  turn  up  the  ronni.  As  lie  had  ar- 
gued, the  conviction  of  thi-  truth  of  his  theory  had  hccn  steadily 
growing  in  his  own  mind.  He  wanted,  now,  to  clinch  the  thing 
once  and  for  all,  eliminate  the  last  possibility  of  sending  in  a 
report  to  the  S.  P.  R.,  and  1 1\-  the  ghost  for  c\  cr.  Hut  as  he 
reached  the  end  of  the  ro(Mn,  his  eye  fell  on  the  tulle  scart  left 
by  Miss  Messenger  on  the  pre\  ious  night,  now  neatly  folded 
by  the  housemaid  and  laid  on  a  table  by  the  window.  And  he 
realised  in  an  instant  that  the  confounded  thing  was  grey  and 
matched  the  colour  of  Miss  Messenger's  dress.  Why  then  had 
that  scarf  also  not  appeared  white  in  the  moonlight?  It  meant 
nothing;  no  douht  he  might  be  able  to  c\ol\e  some  explaii;;- 
tion,  but  at  the  present  moment  it  might  most  vcxatiously  com- 
plicate his  case.  E\  cr)'onc,  strangely  enough,  had  recognised 
that  scarf.  It  was  the  one  thing  that  had  appeared  to  be  unaltered 
by  the  unusual  conditions. 

Harrison  was  intellectually  honest,  but  the  temptation  to 
suppress  that  piece  of  evidence  was  too  strong  for  him.  As  he 
turned,  he  was  between  the  table  and  the  rest  of  the  party,  and 
he  stretched  his  hand  out  behind  him,  and  surreptitiousl)' cram- 
med the  scarf  into  the  pocket  of  his  dinner-jacket. 

]3ut  his  peroration  was  spoilt.  'Die  enthusiasm  seemed  to 
ha\'e  been  suddenly  drained  out  of  him. 

"Hm!  hm!  Well,  in  effect,"  he  said  as  he  returned,  "I  sub- 
mit that  there  is  no  reason  whatever  to  seek  a  supernatural 
explanation  of  our  experience  last  night.  What  do  you  all  say:" 

"Pcrsonall)',  I'm  quite  convinced  that  it  was  Miss  Messen- 
ger we  saw,"  his  wife  replied  cheerfully. 

"Ver)-  probably,  I  should  say,"  Greatorex  agreed. 

"It  certainly  seems  the  most  likely  explanation,"  Mrs. 
Greatorex  added. 

"And  ^•ou,  Lady  Ulrica:''  Harrison  asked. 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  I  49 

"Well,  of  course,  if  }'ou  are  all  sure  it  was  Miss  Messen- 
ger, I  don't  see  that  there's  anything  more  to  be  said,"  Lady 
Ulrica  replied. 

"All  of  us  except  Vernon,"  Harrison  amended. 

Vernon  siglicd  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "You've  pretty 
effectively  diddled  my  report  to  the  S.P.R.,  anyway,"  he  said. 
"If  no  one  is  prepared  to  swear  that  the  person  we  first  saw 
was  not  Miss  ^Messenger,  I've  got  no  eA'idence." 

"There  is  still  Fell,  of  course,"  Harrison  suggested. 

"I  don't  think  we  can  rely  upon  anything  Mr.  Fell  might 
say,"  Mrs.  Harrison  put  in.  "I'm  afraid  he  had  a  reason  for 
not  ■wanting  to  recognise  Miss  Messenger  just  then.  I  don't 
think  Mr.  Fell  has  bcha\'cd  at  all  nicely." 

"I  think  we'll  drop  it,  Harrison,"  Vernon  said  with  a  touch 
of  magnanimity.  "I  can't  say  that  you've  convinced  me,  even 
about  last  night's  experience,  but  you've  got  all  the  ordinary 
probabilities  on  }our  side.  It's  curious  how  difficult  it  is  c\ en 
io  plan  a  perfect  test  case." 


4 
Harrison  had  triumphed.  He  ought  to  ha\  c  been  content. 
But  the  truth  is  that  he  had  satisfied  c\cryonc  but  himself. 
"That  confounded  scarf,"  as  he  began  to  thiiik  of  it,  bothered 
and  perplexed  him.  He  stowed  it  away  in  a  drawer  when  he 
went  to  bed,  but  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  he  found 
himself  wide  awake  reconsidcrijig  all  the  evidence.  It  had  come 
to  him  with  a  perfectly  detestable  clearness  that  if  Vernon's 
theory  was  a  true  one,  that  scarf  was  the  single  piece  of  com- 
mon earthly  material  that  had  been  used  in  the  presentation  of 
the  phenomenon  they  had  witnessed;  and  it  was,  at  least,  a 
strangely  significant  fact  that  the  scarf  should  be  the  one  thing 
they  had  all  seen  so  clearly,  the  one  thing  the  appearance  of 
which  had  not  been  influenced  by  their  mental  emotion  or  the 
effect  of  moonlicht, 


I  5  O  SlO NS  A N  D  WON I>1:  RS 

The  coincidence  hothercJ  liim.  He  coviKl  not  fiml  an  cx- 
pl;U)ation. 

It  cojitinucd  to  liothcr  him  the  next  morning.  It  came 
between  him  an»l  his  work.  And  after  lunch  he  put  the  scarf 
in  his  pocket  and  made  it  an  excuse  it)  call  again  on  Miss  Mes- 
senger. There  were,  perhaps,  one  or  two  further  points  that 
might  he  elucidated  in  con\ersation  witli  her.  Slie  had  taken, 
he  judged,  almost  as  \i»)lent  an  antipathy  to  the  thing  as  he 
had  himself.  The  sight  of  it  might  produce  some  kind  of  shock, 
might  just  possibly  revive  some  memory  of  what  had  happened 
during  her  trance. 

When  he  arri\ed  at  tlie  hotel,  Miss  Messenger  was  in  the 
garden,  and  he  was  shown  up  into  her  private  sitting-room  to 
await  her.  Still  thoughtfull)'  considering  the  best  means  to  ap- 
proach the  production  of  the  scarf,  he  walked  abscnt-mijuledly 
across  the  room  and  began  to  stare  at  the  photographs  on  the 
mantelpiece.  And  then,  suddenly,  he  became  aware  of  the 
illusion  that  he  was  gazing  at  a  background  of  dark  \'ews, 
against  which  was  \i\idly  posed  the  delicate  profile  of  some 
exquisite  cameo.  He  blinked  his  eyes  in  amazement,  and  the 
background  changed  to  the  commonplace  detail  reflected  in 
the  mirror.  But  the  face  remained,  the  \ery  profile  he  had  seen 
b)-  the  plaiitation,  a  face  sensitive  and  full  of  sadness,  staring 
wistfull)'  out  as  if  at  some  unwelcome  vision  of  the  future. 

Harrison  shi\  ercd.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  a  tliin  draught  of 
cold  air  were  blowing  past  him.  And  then,  for  a  moment,  he 
had  a  sense  of  immense  distances  and  strange  acti\  itics  beyond 
the  knowled<re  of  common  life.  He  was  aware  of  some  old  ex- 
perience  newlv  recognised  after  long  ages  of  forgetfulness;  an 
experience  that  came  back  to  him  elusive  as  the  thought  of  a 
recent  dream.  But  while  he  struggled  to  place  that  fugitive 
memory,  the  door  behind  him  opened,  and  the  dark  curtain  of 
physical  reality  was  suddenly  interposed  between  him  and  his 
vision. 

He  heard  the  \oicc  of  Miss  Messenger  speaking  to  him 


THE  NIGHT  OF  CREATION  I  5  I 

close  .It  hand. 

"That's  my  friend,  Rhoda  Burton, "slie  was  saying.  "The 
photograph  was  taken  only  a  week  before  she  died.  She  was 
in  great  trouble  even  then,  poor  darling." 


HERE  ENDS  SIGNS  AND  WONDERS,  THE  THIRD 

BOOK  PRINTED  AT  THE  GOLDEN  COCKEREL 

PRESS,  WALTHAM    SAINT    LAWRENCE, 

BERKSHIRE.  THIS  EDITION  OF  1 500 

COPIES   FINISHED   ON  THE 

15TH.  OF  JUNE 

1921. 


.oo3 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

S.iiiia  ll:irl)ara 


I  MIS    IU)()k    IS   DIE   ON     I  HE   LASr 
STAMPED    BELOW. 


DA  IE 


Series  94H2 


3  1205  02112  2435 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A         001  417  123  5 


